


The Swindler

by Darkhymns



Category: Death Gate Cycle - Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Dragons, Established Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Headcanon, Pre-Canon, lots and lots of headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:51:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkhymns/pseuds/Darkhymns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Alfred was Coren, when names were once just sounds in the air and nothing more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [karrenia_rune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/karrenia_rune/gifts).



> First off, for your extra reading pleasure, http://people.virginia.edu/~sfr/enam312/prufrock.html. It's not necessary to read it but it is a nice poem. :)
> 
> This was meant to be a lot shorter, but I apparently can't do that, so here is what I have instead. And it's about Alfred, because he's great and adorable and I'm so incredibly weak. D: Also, this is separated into four chapters to make it flow better, but it's all here.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! And to my gift-receiver, if you had something else in mind, I'm open to another suggestion. :)

Yesterday had been Coren's name day. Nineteen cycles come and gone, marked by a small, if slightly somber celebration, and shared with few friends and fewer family members. A day marked by the giving of his name -a common name- but one that his father had liked and wanted to give unto his son. His presents consisted of a few books, most of them copies from the Sartan library that he could now add to his own growing collection. Simple little things for him, for that was all he really desired.

For the most part.

So it might've been seen as strange that Coren would still go to the library tonight, late enough so that no other Sartan would be lurking around the shelves or be seated at one of the many tables. And it might've been strange that, even though the presents he had gotten were with him still, their covers intact, their pages crisp and perfect, he had left them on one of the tables, giving his attention instead to other tomes; older, close to falling apart, the magic preserving them not having been maintained well enough.

Yet it was not just the young Sartan that was an oddity. A crack ran along the right wall, a globe of light hung suspended in midair that was now more faded than the rest, close to dimming completely. Even some of the sigla traced along the shelves, the tables, the walls, the ceiling- some were half-erased, their soft blue light no longer as pronounced, their commands no longer as, well, commanding.

But that's what they were- little things that one could pass by, that one could forget entirely. Except there were so many, and all they did was remind Coren of what was happening, of what could be done. If anything could.

A cousin of his had just passed away this very morning. She had been younger than him, bold, possessing magic with a certain vigor that had made her future very promising. And now she was dead.

She and Coren had been the same age.

Hefting a particular heavy book, this one much older than the rest, he lifted it from its resting place, humming soft melodies for the words on the pages to stay clear, for the cover to stay intact. He had found it in the back of the library, wedged in between other, newer tomes, and behind even more, so much so that he had to whisk away the others with a quick spell just to reach the old book.

It had been forgotten by the elders, an old relic containing histories of the ancient world. Usually such things were well-cared for, especially remnants of the worlds that had been one before the Sundering. But then, the library itself used to be better maintained, and now there were books in the wrong sections, papers on the floor. The remains of past frantic searches for answers, too preoccupied to put everything back in perfect order. At the very least, much of the library was clean now, for Coren had been the only one to even bother with such a mundane task.

But now he was doing his own research, and unlike other Sartan that had visited throughout the day, he didn't trip over his robes frantically, or drop the fragile book from his hands. His even steps took him to the table, gently laying the book down. There was not even a ruffle from the pages throughout his entire movement.

It was an old, useless thing. That was why it had been pushed to the back, why no one else in their search had bothered with this book. Because what use could anyone have, in these silent times of crisis, with a book of forgotten poetry?

He wasn't really sure himself why he wanted it.

"You are always in a book now," his mother had said a few days ago. He noted how weary her voice had been of late, and how her steps moved just a bit slower. She was still healthy and not at all old. "More so than usual, Coren."

"Oh. Well… there are just so many interesting subjects." His answer had sounded just as weak to his own ears, and the images they brought faltered. They were of crowds of white-robed Sartan that filled the streets, of each face rapidly disintegrating one by one until only a handful remained. An exaggeration, of course, but still his imagination could get the best of him. It wasn't like he really believed it.

She had smiled then, but not like when he had been a child, when his father was alive. There was a lot about her that was sad now. It suffused their home, the streets surrounding it, and would grow even stronger when he passed by other, older Sartan with the same expression. It made him feel incredibly guilty, but leaving his home under the shadows of the Lords of Night, when all slept- it allowed him to breathe.

To be truthful, he was not sure what he could have told his mother. Books about past Sartan history, about details of the other sundered worlds, or even about their ancestors and the famous Council- such things would provide advice, maybe even answers. And his recent fascination with incredibly ancient mensch poetry was a comfort at best.

And maybe that was all he wanted.

So he turned to a certain page, penned by a certain author, filled with a certain verse. And he read, and re-read as much as he pleased.

_Let us go then, you and I,_

_When the evening is spread out against the sky,_

_Like a patient etherized upon a table._

There would be time later for the other books, he told himself.

* * *

"You stayed longer than usual tonight."

He found Lya seated by the lake, far away from civilization, the forests of the hargast trees seen from the distance. Her knees were folded beneath her, her white robe pillowing out upon the ground. Her hood was down, showing off her tangled, white hair, for the sky was dark, and they were alone.

Coren allowed himself a self-deprecating smile. "Sorry I kept you waiting. I, um… got distracted."

Lya raised her head, grinning in turn. "Yes, I know how that is."

She held nothing in her hands this time. A rare occurrence, for the metal scraps she carried around were her own strange fascination, yet the treasures of her Drevlin home were nowhere to be seen. Coren, in comparison, carried five thick books in his thin arms, their weight only lessened by the magic he had cast over them. A rune flickered pleasantly on one of the covers.

Lya's gaze flitted over to them, taking inventory of their details like she would with her brass metal cogs and pipes. "You haven't even opened them yet."

He sighed, taking a spot next to her on the grass. He carefully set the books aside. "It's not that I don't appreciate…"

"I know." She slipped her hand onto his own, her fingers slightly chilled from the night air. "Was there anyone there?"

"No. So I really thought I would be able to read them if I was by myself. But there was a bit of a mess there, and, well, I didn't want to leave it like that-"

"So you got distracted."

Her voice was warm in her jest. It made him laugh a little, made the breeze feel pleasant against his skin.

Other Sartan didn't come out this far, past the tall spires of the center of civilization, and certainly not past the houses for the human mensch living under their care in their own section of the cities. It wasn't really part of custom to keep such secret places from other people, but they were young, and these times were troubling, and why couldn't they have just a place for them both? So they would meet with each other here after the day, before the vast lake that stretched out before them in perfection, and ignore the fact that council meetings were being frequently called, that even the mensch walked around the grounds with worry.

Neither said anything for a little while. Lya leaned against him. He circled an arm around her, his heart beating slightly faster. He closed his eyes, feeling incredibly relaxed, though trying his best not to fall asleep. (That had happened once before with both of them, and the resulting day after had been filled with hurried excuses and some embarrassment). But he must have dozed off still, for Lya's voice broke through suddenly, making him wonder at the rippling lake before them.

"Coren?"

"Hmm?"

"I don't think you cleaned up at the library for three hours straight. What else did you do?"

He blinked, then stammered a little. "O- Oh! Was it really that long?"

Lya smiled wider. She leaned in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Really."

The feel of her warmth and the night's cold air made him a little dizzy. "You didn't have to wait such a long time for me…"

"Don't worry. Ivor was spying on you before, so that's how I know."

Her words were full of amusement, dispelling away any guilt he might have felt before. He grasped her hand tighter, remembering how dim the light globes of the library had been.

"I was reading something else," he said, his voice low. "I've been reading it for a while, to be honest."

"What is it about?"

"It's nothing much." But images floated at the sound of his voice, portraying strange words on a page, arranged in a specific verse, detailing a rhythm not so different from a song.

Lya saw, instantly understood. "I was never one for poetry myself," she admitted. "And mensch poetry goes over my head completely."

"I don't really understand it much either, but… I guess I like it." Maybe it was the strange play of words, or the images they created- but it made him calmer, as if the world was easier to go through. It was hard to say it aloud, but Lya read his thoughts easily and the magic still running from the memory of his voice, the language portraying everything between them with a still clearness.

"Perhaps you should show it to me another time," she suggested.

Coren had actually thought about making a copy of the book. It would've been a simple, easy spell to perform. But he had told himself he didn't need to. He could not allow himself to be that selfish. "Maybe tomorrow," he finally said.

"What is the poem called?"

"Oh, it was… um…" For some reason, he couldn't remember the title. He would always skip right ahead to the verse. "The Love Song, I think."

"The whole title?" she asked, for she had seen the images, recalled the imprint of words, even if Coren could not.

He furrowed his brow in thought. "The Love Song of…Alfred?" He smiled with embarrassment. "I just started reading this particular poem a couple of days ago."

"Alfred," Lya said softly. She smiled, brushing up against his arm. "I don't know about the poem, but I do like the name."

* * *

Eventually, Coren's days of reading had to be cut short. It was a particular incident, a Sartan dropping dead at the feet of a wide-eyed human male, that made the demigods tasks even more hectic. It was then decided by the elders that, due to current circumstances, the mensch would have to leave the High Realms.

So it was up to many of the young Sartan -including Coren- to deal with their angry, weeping, frightened worshippers. Dozens of faces, composed of many humans and a smattering of elves, filled with the same confusion. He had never felt so helpless then, especially as one young woman had dared to clutch at his arms as she begged for mercy, all the while questioning how he could be so cruel to force her from what she now considered her very home, and knew that he should not have felt such a thing at all.

It had lasted no more than a couple of days, but Coren felt like he had aged decades until the last remaining mensch was transported back to the Mid Realms. He had been tempted more than once to tell them just why all of the Sartan were moving them away, that they were fewer now, that events were not going according to plan as expected.

But instead he told them, "There is much more room down back in the Mid Realms for you all. With your magic, you can now help each other, you can all live in peace." They were echoes of his elders instructing him on what to say. And soon, he had said the same phrases so many times to so many faces over so many hours, that he no longer even knew what the words meant anymore.

"It is because they fear us," he had overhead one man say to another, one of the few human wizards who had learned to control the quicksilver dragons. "We do not have to suffer this. We live here as well!"

For a short, still moment, he thought the mensch would fight back. That the elves and humans, with their people skilled in their own magics, would challenge the Sartan, despite their lack of knowledge of the runes. And it was in that moment that he was afraid, for the elders had not told him what to do should such a thing happen. How could anyone anticipate that?

But his worries were for nothing, for by the fourth day, all of the mensch had left the High Realms, the very last one disappearing from the floating isle of Shegra. He tried to ignore the fact that the humans and elves pointedly self-segregated themselves from the other. Surely even the mensch knew that war would lead to nothing good.

The streets grew quieter then. Even when he was in the Sartan parts of the city, he could recall raucous voices in the breeze, the cry of children, as well as the bitter arguments between the races. Now there was nothing.

He was sure the mensch could come back some day though. There would be time for that, and wasn't time all that the Sartan really needed?

Still, no one was sorrier to see the mensch go than Ivor.

After their departure, one of Coren's new duties was to clean up the mess the mensch had left behind. Trash littered the wide cobbled streets, and some doors of their houses were left half open. Sometimes he would even find spare furniture just lying on their side on the pavement. He was not sure why this was so, since the mensch knew that the Sartan could have transported all of their belongings with ease. And then he saw the remnants of a chair dangling out of a broken window, remembering how angry the mensch had been.

Sighing, he went inside the house, preparing himself to find broken plates and crockery to brush away. Instead, he found another Sartan man around his own age, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, looking at something in his hands. Coren instantly recognized the tied-up knot that held up the other's long white hair.

"Ivor? What are you doing here? You weren't assigned for this."

The other whirled his head around, at first looking a little surprised to find another soul with him.

"Oh! Uh, nothing bad. Promise." He laughed a little nervously, pointedly keeping the object in his hands hidden.

"I wish I could believe that," Coren said flatly. "I really do."

"That's a little hurtful." Ivor turned himself around, still sitting. "I just wanted to get something from here. To remember her by."

"Who are you talking about?"

"Kyra. The human girl that used to live here." At this, Ivor sighed happily. He held up a bright red ribbon in his hands, the kind that some girls wore to tie up their hair. "She was really beautiful. I was going to introduce her to you and Lya, but then all this happened and well…"

Coren hid his exasperation well. It had been several weeks since Ivor had fallen in love with another mensch girl. Despite being older than Coren by a few cycles, Ivor certainly didn't let minor issues like  _rules_  and  _inappropriate conduct_  ever get in the way of his never ending romances.

"Heh, it was getting harder to sneak over here lately, let me tell you-"

"I, um, would rather if you didn't," Coren said quickly. Ivor didn't know when to stop giving out details about his… activities.

Although… Ivor  _did_  look a little stranger today, more thoughtful. He was once again looking down at the ribbon in his hands, idly wrapping one end of it around his finger.

"It's going to be way more dull without them now."

Coren took a moment to answer. "It was for the best, Ivor." They couldn't risk another Sartan dying in front of the mensch's eyes. "Besides, it's time for them to be live on their own, without us. At least, for now."

"I suppose. But should we really let our children go out there alone like this?"

That was what the Sartan elders termed their mensch charges. And Coren, for some reason, had never felt comfortable with it. "But they're not our children. I think you would know that more than anyone."

Ivor blinked, then grinned. "That's true." His words were brief, but images leaked out from them all the same- images that should have been private. Coren instantly waved them away, knowing just what they would entail.

"Can you  _please_  not do that?"

"You were the one that reminded me of it," Ivor said, deflecting the blame.

Coren rubbed his temples. "Never mind. Just… I have some work to do."

"Okay, okay." Ivor stood up, the ribbon now firmly tied around his right hand. He was not a short man by any means, but he still only came up to Coren's shoulder. "Oh, that reminds me. Selyse didn't live too far away from here. I wonder if she left something of hers behind as well."

Coren was a little sad to find how unsurprised he was by Ivor's statement. "Sounds like you have a full day ahead of you."

He was already calculating how long it would take to clean the mess off the floor. He noted some spare clothing draped across the chairs, a wooden bowl off to the side, and some utensils scattered. He had to take inventory as well which, despite his magic, was still a rather tedious task. He also had a suspicion that some of this mess Ivor had helped make, but at the very least it gave him something to do today besides contemplating.

Ivor was already leaving the house as Coren whispered the runes aloud. A quarter of the floor was already being cleared away, until he was interrupted.

"Hey, Coren?" Ivor called out from the doorway. "Do you have any idea what's happening?"

Coren lowered his hand, the spell forgotten.

"I'm asking because, well, you're always reading now and maybe if you found something-"

The words to the poem floated through his head, but he suppressed the image easily enough. "I only know as much as you do."

There was a short silence, which Ivor easily filled with amusement. "Maybe it's the ancient Patryns come to wage war on us again."

Coren shivered. "D- don't even joke about that."

"Who can know for certain though? They might be hiding under our beds right now, sharpening their claws and ready to pick the marrow of our bones clean."

Coren stared at him blankly. "I think you're confusing Patryns for cougars."

Ivor laughed, running a hand through his hair. "It was just a theory."

If anyone could make light of a bad situation, it would be Ivor. Coren did appreciate it a little, knowing that the other had lost an uncle only a couple of weeks ago.

"Even as a theory, I probably wouldn't suggest it to the elders, claws and all."

The older Sartan smiled good-naturedly. "True. I guess I'll leave you to it then." He quickly uttered the magic, a transportation spell, the melody of it pleasant. Runes shimmered in the air. "Farewell, Brother," he said, finally using the formal phrase.

"Farewell," Coren answered in turn.

Ivor waved as his body started to disappear. His smile turned into a grin. "Make sure to check your closet tonight also."

Coren made sure to frown disapprovingly, but not before the other was already gone.

* * *

How many months had passed, Coren wasn't entirely too sure. But with the days came more and more tasks, slowly laying on his shoulders until he finally noticed the weight. The Sartan had convened on many meetings much more frequently now. They couldn't spare much people to help supervise the mensch in their new homes, needing all their magics to support the shield of the High Realms. Only a very few handful volunteered to keep up their duties there, like Ivor, despite the suspicious glances his way.

There had also been talk of random skirmishes between the races, of clan wars being fought between the humans. Coren had certainly not expected that the humans would fight against each other, but the elders has assured him along with his other brethren that times of difficulty was to be expected.

Yet still, more of the Sartan were dying. Including his own mother.

At the time, he wasn't sure how to deal with it. He had found her himself, walking into the house and seeing her lying there on the floor, her robes tangled around her form. A chair was overturned by her side.

There had been a funeral, one of several that month. But he couldn't stay for much too long, and had left soon after to go the library. He picked out that same book of poems, and re-read that particular page until he could recite it by heart.

_And indeed there will be time_

_For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,_

_Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;_

_There will be time, there will be time._

It didn't seem to comfort him as much anymore.

He must have stayed at the library for hours, for when he looked out the windows, the sky was already very dark. He blinked, his back feeling very stiff.

He didn't want to go back home. It would be too empty, too quiet. And suddenly, he remembered how he had avoided his house for a long time before, unable to take his mother's sorrow. Guilt took hold of him, hard and unbearable. She had died  _alone_  because…

He made for the double doors, leaving the book on the table. He couldn't really see where he was going. Everything was suddenly too blurry and distorted. He felt the breeze hit his face once he made it outside, but the darkness overwhelmed him, so he just stood there. Waiting, waiting.

A hand grasped his wrist, making him flinch. But he recognized the touch, soft as it was.

Lya stood by his side, her hood over her face. "I'm sorry."

He knew then what he wanted. Her arms, her face, her voice. She embraced him tightly, and he buried his head in the crook of her neck. He no longer bothered trying to hold back his tears.

They walked out of the Sartan city soon after, passing through the abandoned mensch towns, going to nowhere in particular. Coren would've liked to have gone to the lake, but it was dried up now, an empty hole in the ground.

Lya was holding his hand, leading him during their stroll. When she spoke, it was a pleasant intrusion, for their time before had been filled only with silence. "I think that we will be moving soon."

He swallowed, his throat feeling a little dry. "Moving?"

"I… overheard some of the council members talking," she said in a guilty whisper. "I never meant to, but I was seated by the wall, busy with my machines, so they didn't notice me."

The image of her, sitting on the floor, her eyes so intent on her work, made him smile. The ache in his chest dwindled.

"There are still so many things to finish with the great machine," she said, then stopped, realizing she was getting ahead of herself. "They suggested that we all move to Drevlin. To the Low Realms." Pictures floated before her, of twisting tunnels, of constantly moving valves and cogs, and of dark, rumbling storm clouds. He could feel her fondness for it all, a homesickness that she had always before kept in check.

He hadn't been to the Low Realms for a long time- not ever since he had first seen Lya there, a small girl trailing behind a white-robed crowd. Part of him hungered to go. The strange sickness afflicting the Sartan hadn't lessened on Drevlin either from what Lya had told him before, but maybe it would be different still. Because the streets here suddenly felt too wide and empty, and its inhabitants too few. The days were so quiet, with only one or two children playing in the grass. He knew there had been way more before, he was certain.

To move all of their people was a heavy decision, just like with the mensch, and he knew it was more than just a need for a change of scenery.

"It is because of the shield failing, isn't it?" Because how could they protect the mensch and themselves? When they couldn't even the stop the green trees from wilting away?

Lya tightened her fingers around his hand. "It is probably only for a little while. Once we finish with the machine, things will change."

There were already too many changes going on. But Coren held in such words, as well as his thoughts. It couldn't hurt to hope. "I'm not so good with technical things," he said instead.

"I'm sure we'll find a place for even a bookworm like you," Lya teased.

He still had his smile. It was hard to put it away, especially when she was near, when she seemed to somehow make things easier.

"I don't really care where we go," he admitted, staring at her, swallowing away his fear. "As long as you're with me."

So when she smiled back, he was convinced everything would be okay. It would, he told himself. It would.


	2. Chapter 2

"Coren," Ivor complained, glaring at the hexagonal runes etched on the walls before them. "We've been had, bamboozled, completely led astray."

"Are you really blaming the  _directions_  for getting us lost here?"

Ivor threw up his hands. "Well, if people would just make them a bit more clearer, this wouldn't be such a problem now, would it?"

It had been approximately three weeks since the Sartan from the High Realms moved in with their brethren on Drevlin. The days of preparation had been eerily similar to mensch's own move, Coren had thought, with many wistfully looking back on their tall spires, or lingering outside to feel the warmth of Solarus on their skin. The Low Realms was as different from their home as night was to day. Instead of graceful buildings of coralite, there were interconnecting tunnels, their walls inscribed with the runes, their light bathing the pathways in soft blue. Instead of clear skies, they were greeted to constant storm clouds, the rain pounding down on the great machine's metal arms. And though the mensch here were just as worshipful and obedient as the humans and elves had been, the dwarves seemed to devote much of their time to the machine's many parts, enchanted with the shifting gears and the hissing steam. Their attention to their Sartan overseers was more of an afterthought at most.

The new inhabitants very first hurdle was in navigating the tunnels, numerous as they were. The Sartan of Drevlin were rather fond of their underground home, enough to create new branching pathways; but each tunnel led its traveler the quickest way, a no-nonsense form of architecture that helped them on to their destination. Even so, it took a week at most for many of the recently transported people to find their way. This, unfortunately, did not include Ivor.

"I don't really know how else they could make it any clearer," Coren told his friend, peering up at the runes. "I mean, they say where they go right here. See, this one says the left tunnel leads into the Heart-"

"I don't know what that is," Ivor pouted.

Coren sighed. "Well, this is why you should've paid attention during the council meeting…"

"You could've paid attention just now too." Ivor flicked a glance to the book Coren held open in his hands. "I'm constantly amazed that you don't walk yourself into a wall while you're reading."

Ivor really liked not taking any of the blame, but Coren wouldn't play into it this time. "You  _did_  tell me you could lead us back fine."

Ivor placed a hand against his chest in mock-horror. "And here I thought you knew me."

They had only one really simple task- to find their way to the control room. Lya had shown both of them around the smooth tunnels plenty of times, even transcribing what certain epithets meant (The Womb was where the dwarves were, the Heart the main Sartan living area, etc). It was really very simple, for the Sartan were clear on how they wanted to layout their tunnels within the Heart and the Brain so that anyone could learn rather quickly.

Almost anyone.

Coren tried a suggestion. "We could teleport back outside and start over."

"No," Ivor stated, folding his arms. "I won't be bested."

"By…architecture."

"Please, Coren. It's the principle of the matter."

"Then maybe I should lead."

"Go right ahead," the older boy said magnanimously, fully expecting his friend to have just as much ill-luck as he did.

It, of course, got immensely easier with Coren paying attention now, his eyes on their surroundings, and a large leather-bound book tucked under his arm. They had even come across other Sartan in their passing, making the correct formal greetings to each in turn. Most of them were as young as they, (with half the boys possessing Coren's common name), as many of the older Sartan were predisposed to other tasks, even taking some of their children's previous duties. It was actually a relief to Coren, because it got… easier to forget some of the past unsettling events from before.

He kept a sharp eye on the runes until they had finally come upon the very designated control room. They might have arrived sooner, but Ivor had refused to ask the other Sartan for directions. The elder boy pouted once they reached the door at the end of the hall, the sigla above it declaring where it led to. "Well, I was already leading us here anyway…"

"I know," Coren answered in appeasement. The door was wide, enough to fit three people side by side, and was shaped like a hexagon. In the center were more runes, arranged in a circle, an empty space in the center. He stretched out a hand, looking at the interconnecting lines before them, like chains to a lock. It  _looked_  like a complex spell, but the embellished characters were etched in the wall for appearances at most, another precaution should any non-Sartan beings ever make it this far. But all Coren had to do was trace a sigil inside the circle, mimicking the hand movements Lya had shown him when she had drawn the design in the air only a couple of days ago.

The sigil seemed to catch fire, flaring brightly, setting the other runes surrounding it to life. The door opened inward, letting the two finally have a peek inside.

Lya was on the floor, cross-legged, a mess of metal parts strewed about the floor. Her white robe was stained from grease and oil, her long sleeves pulled up near her shoulders to allow her more room. She raised her head at the sound of the door opening, her face half hidden in her hood. "I was beginning to think you boys got lost."

Before Coren could even answer, Ivor stepped forward. "Lost? Such little faith in us, but I will accept your inevitable apologies and gratitude for leading the love of your life through such underground perils."

Coren narrowed his eyes, while Lya laughed. "You have both of those, of course," she said.

The control room was a large area, circular in its shape. The walls around them were embedded with strange contraptions in the shape of human eyes. Each pupil showcased a different area of Drevlin. Dwarves whisked by in the images, showing some pushing iron carts up rails, and others monitoring the moving pumps and cogs, sometimes pulling a lever at a certain moment. Some of the eyes showed images of white-robed Sartan passing along, inscribing runes onto a new part of the growing machine, but they were few, much of the monitoring kept on the mensch.

Coren had already seen the room from Lya's words and descriptions. He was not surprised by the strange eyes, though perhaps a little unsettled. Ivor himself was sucked in, going to one eye in particular where some young dwarves were racing each other in the heavy carts, gliding down the rails in heart-stopping speed. "That looks fun," he said wistfully.

Coren was barely listening to him though. In the center of the room, near Lya, was the automaton the Sartan of Drevlin had been working on. It was constructed like a person, with two legs and two arms, complete with a head decorated with jeweled eyes, a nose, a mouth, and even eyebrows, all of it fashioned from brass. But it was obvious, even to someone not so mechanically inclined as he, that the construct was unfinished.

Half of its chest was missing, an empty hole where the stomach should have been. One of its arms was only half-complete, ending at its elbow. There was runes drawn on its body, connected to each other, instructions for the automaton for basic movement, but even this was only partly done. Some of the sigla even looked erased, as if the person who had done it changed their mind in the midst of writing.

"It's taken us longer than we thought," Lya told him, getting to her feet. "I suppose it's not as easy as making dolls, is it?"

Coren recalled the small replica she had shown him once before, a tiny automaton that had sprung to life at her command. He smiled at her. "I suppose so. It looks, um…" He stared at the creation, about a foot taller than he was, imagining it stomping around the floor. He could not even say why he was unnerved by it, but he was all the same.

"It's not exactly…pretty." The girl shrugged, unconsciously wiping away some of the grease from her hands onto her robe. "Someone tried though, with its eyes." She pointed at the twin jewels embedded in the automaton's head. "I don't think it worked all too well."

Coren could definitely agree. The jewels reflected the images from the strange eyes around them, glinted at odd moments. It was uncanny. "Maybe it would be better without a face?"

"Ah, but then it would always look incomplete, even when it's ready. At least, that's what the others say," Lya said in a tone indicating that she didn't wholeheartedly agree. "Oh, it's going to have a voice too."

Coren blinked. He hadn't actually expected that detail. Although, considering that this automaton would help with aligning the isles of Arianus once the final phase was reached,  _(if it could_ , but he pushed that thought aside) he supposed the Sartan would like it to speak.

"We could probably model its voice after someone we know too, with the right spells and all." She sidled up to him, grinning. "Maybe you would like to volunteer?"

He stuttered then, suddenly self-conscious. "I- uh- I don't- t-think-"

Her laugh was a salve to his temporary embarrassment. "If it makes you feel better, we could use Ivor's voice instead."

"I heard my name! Am I being praised?" Ivor turned around, finally drawn away from the images. "If so, I hope you have my list of great accomplishments at hand."

Coren stared at his friend, fighting an urge to laugh aloud. "We seem to have misplaced it."

"Actually, now that I have both of your attention," the girl turned to the half-completed automaton, taking a deep breath, "I wanted to test something out."

"Does it have to do with those mine carts? Because those looked really neat-"

"No, Ivor."

Coren stared at the construct, at the ill-completed runes on its body. "Are you doing what I think you're doing?"

Lya held her hands out, sliding one foot forward. "I thought it would be good to have you watch over me." And he knew she was speaking about him specifically, especially when he heard an unspoken thought, an invisible thread extended from her mind.  _This may not be altogether allowed…_

"I'll just say in advance that whatever you're going to do is great and astounding," Ivor said as his eyes strayed back to the images of the dwarves behind him. His attention span was really quite terrible, especially when it came to mensch to serve as his distractions.

Coren watched silently as Lya moved her body in a slow and intricate dance, her hands tracing softly gilded runes in the air. White robes swished around her legs, like the wings of a bird. Her voice traveled in high notes, a soothing soprano that was always pleasant to his ears. But the magic was different this time than usual, at least for her. She would always sing her spells in quick fashion, enunciating the runes fast enough for them to appear. But now she took her time, drawing out the shapes, the very essence of it, forming it into a living thing.

The little doll replica she had brought to life just three cycles ago for him had plodded around on the floor, as awkward as a newborn. It had bumped into other objects, continually tried to walk forward as there had been no walls blocking its path. But that little doll had had no eyes to speak of, no mouth to voice its confusion, and no intelligence to even comprehend its existence. And this automaton here, even taller than he was, with its jeweled eyes and its brass mouth, had been created for the sole purpose of helping fix a broken world.

The runes on its chest brightened, connecting to the other parts of its body, like pathways of oil catching fire. The thing shuddered, an arm beginning to extend, the joint at its elbow bending. A dead thing being given life, and Coren couldn't help but think, as his hand tightened on his book, that it was a bit ironic that the Sartan could do such creations, and yet were unable to even keep their own from fading away, to even birth anymore sons or daughters…

There was another shudder. The automaton stopped moving, the runes snuffing out all the sudden, their engraved characters as dark as the brass surface they were on. Its hand inexplicably fell off the wrist joint, clattering to the floor in a mess of gears and screws.

Lya's voice stopped in mid-song. She stared at the broken hand as if one of the ancient Patryns had just sprouted up from the ground right then and there. "Oops."

Ivor, at this time, was already turned back to the roving eyes and their pictures, having done so during Lya's spell. At the sound, he waved his right hand behind him carelessly. "Yeah, don't worry. That was really amazing, Lya, wow."

Coren was bit too distracted by the sight to wonder if Ivor's words were sarcasm or not. "I…guess it wasn't supposed to do that."

Lya knelt to the floor, trying to gather back all the parts. Her hood had slid off her head slightly, allowing him to see her green eyes. He watched how the irises flickered, counting off each scrap. "Elian isn't going to be happy about this."

He knelt down beside her, unable to do much but shift his hands. He was afraid of breaking something else. "Was it ready for this?"

"Well, no," Lya admitted, blushing a little. "To be honest, I haven't seen the spell actually performed yet. Arya was the one who wrote out the mechanics to it, so all I knew of it was the notes she made." A part that looked like it had been the palm was in her hands. "I just wanted to see how it would work. But that's what I get for being impatient."

Coren took one of her hands in his own, large engulfing the small. Her fingers were still covered in slick grease. There were even a few cuts along them, from handling the sharp gears and wires, from working thick chains and cogs, from dismantling the smallest of screws and casings. She was always more hands on than most, even for a Sartan of Drevlin.

"I'm sure if anyone could fix this quick enough, it'd be you. And you could always try again when it's more…finished."

Her kiss wasn't unexpected (Ivor was still turned away). It was grateful and shy and loving all at once. "Will you watch me the next time?"

Coren nodded. "Why would I say no?"

Lya gestured to the thick book beside him on the floor. "Aren't you worried about your book getting dirty?"

He blinked, noting his hands were also a bit stained with grease. "It's just a book." And he meant it then. Because no matter how many times he re-read the poems, or even  _that_  poem with its strange images of narrow, empty streets and yellow fog, of tea and singing mermaids, it didn't make him feel any better at all. Not like Lya's smile did. Not even like Ivor's stupid jokes. What could words from a long dead world even do for him? He had been looking through it in his walk, and could find no answer.

"Besides, doesn't matter if it gets a little dirty. No one else is going to read it." The book had been another gift from the head librarian, giving it to him after seeing his past interest in it, even binding the cover a little tighter for him. No one else had ever taken the book out from it's hiding place, so why not just let him have it? He had been grateful to her for it, really, it was just that…

_I'd rather make much better use of my time._  He held her hand tighter.

Lya blushed even more, hearing the unspoken thought. "I don't suppose I could ask you to keep this," she gestured toward the broken hand "a secret for me-"

"What's this about secrets?" Ivor didn't even just turn around. He rushed over to the young couple, kneeling down with them. "I am the best at keeping them, you know." He then looked to the floor for the first time. "What happened here?"

"Nothing to do with mensch, sorry." Lya grinned, already beginning to hum a melody to fix the hand. It was whole again before the last note faded in the air.

It was of course, just then, that Ivor would finally have questions about the automaton. She answered him well enough, always pleased to talk about her people's work, all the while fitting the hand right back. One of Ivor's questions was why the builders didn't construct it in the form of a woman instead. Coren rolled his eyes.

The three demigods soon left the room, Ivor insisting he would lead the way. Coren and Lya humored him with silent nods, their hands clasped together. No one was expecting them back home for a couple of hours. They had time to be lost for a little while.

The door shut behind them, the runes darkening once they were out of sight.

* * *

Coren was certain the storms had gotten more violent the past couple of days.

It had now been three cycles since the move. He started to like coziness of the tunnels, the zealous, blunt nature of the dwarves, and even the rain. When Lya and he would venture outside of the tunnels, out of the Heart of their home, just past the shade of the great machine's body, they would stand and watch the sky broil with darkness and thunder, a sight that he had never been treated to before back on Shegra. There were no stars to look at, and the Lords of Night were so very far away, but the shower was pleasant and even the clashing of the thunder was often quite soothing to listen to.

Yet now the wind had grown so strong that even the stocky dwarves, controlling the many dig-claws of the machine, venturing outside to gather the tough coralite, began to fear the weather. A crack of lightning stuck one of the arms with so much force that it had nearly snapped the metal in half, instantly melting away the tough brass, completely ignoring the electricity rods for such an occurrence. They had gone to the Sartan for help, for surely gods could appease the maelstrom, could they not?

Coren had been one of the young ones selected to control the weather, about twenty in all. The rolling clouds were intimidating, and the thunder now hurt his ears. Still, with his brethren, he sang along the low melodies, tracing his runes in the air to connect with the others. Shapes appeared under their feet, sigla coming to life over the pockmarked coralite, bursting into fire. The magic spread toward the sky, strands of light extending from dozens of hands. All the while, the Sartan hummed their command to the winds, telling them to lessen, for the rains to ease. If the mensch had been watching, they would have been awed by the sight, but their gods had told them to remain underground with the machine for their safety.

And then the magic sparked, flickered,  _died_. The ferocity of the storm overwhelmed the music, drowning out their words. The lightning struck again, toward the gods of Arianus, nearly hitting one of the lone Sartan at the edge of their line. There was a shriek, more in shock than in pain. Coren saw a white robed singed, but thankfully not the flesh. By then, the song had stopped completely, leaving only the sound of hard and constant rain assaulting their bodies.

The storm continued throughout the night, finally abating with the dawn, (although it was certainly hard to tell when it was actually day or night in the Low Realms). The dwarves assumed, of course, that they had the Sartan to thank for it. And none of the demigods dared reject the praise.

Maybe it was luck that the dwarves hadn't been around to witness, Coren had thought the following day. Or perhaps the elders had suspected that such a possibility could've happened. He didn't particularly like the latter thought, hoping he was wrong.

He would have been content in staying inside the Sartan's section of Drevlin for the rest of the cycle (at least the tunnels were safe and weren't liable to collapse out of spite), but then he had come across Ivor on his way toward his dwelling. And Ivor was in a frenzied mood.

"Coren! You have to help me!"

"Wha-" He barely got the word out before the other grabbed his arm, dragging him down a diverging pathway, the one that led up the center of the dwarves home. Coren looked back, seeing his very door that would've led to a wide-spaced room and a soft bed, dwindle away.

"Ivor! What's going on?"

"No time for chatter, dear friend! Time is of the essence!"

It was then Coren noted the young man had a satchel around his back, bulging with unknown items. "What are you planning?"

"An adventure!" Ivor shouted triumphantly. Then he stopped, squinted his eyes at the walls, looking at one of the rune descriptions. "Um, wait, I could've swore the way out was over here…"

Coren held in an exasperated sigh. "You could just teleport there." He hoped that Ivor would notice the word 'you.'

"I know, but if I'm going to dwell around mensch, I must start thinking like one!" He looked at their surroundings again, deep in thought. "And, um, all humans have a good sense of direction. And- wait, maybe that's birds I'm thinking of."

Coren blinked, slowly realizing the meaning of Ivor's ramble. "Dwelling around mensch? Wh… Are you leaving?!"

"Exactly! We're gonna have a grand time, I can promise you that!"

" _I'm_  leaving?!"

"It will be a perfect romantic trip for you and Lya!"

Coren was starting to feel a little dizzy. "I don't think-"

"Oh, it was this way." Ivor grabbed his arm again. Still in a bit of shock, Coren didn't protest much, and soon found himself before one of the stairs that led the way to the upper levels, the Womb of Drevlin.

The passageway was one of the more well-known among the Sartan. Leading to a vast audience chamber of a building known as the Factory, it was here that the demigods would gather the mensch on those rare occasions, gracing them with their presence and their words. Rare it was for Coren could only remember one such gathering had been done, and it had been a brief gathering at that. The great machine was always working, and was always very loud that even the loudest Sartan had trouble talking over it. That and the dwarves, although entranced by them, would eventually be drawn back to the moving metal parts and their many levers and pulleys, sometimes wondering aloud when they could go back to work. Coren had noticed that when he would sometimes perform a feat of magic for them, as simple as lighting a dark place, or tracing the hexagonal runes in the air, the dwarves would politely applause and nod their heads. They certainly got much more wide-eyed when Lya had fashioned for one dwarf child a little mechanical device, bearing moving pictures within its den.

Ivor looked up the stairwell, his brow furrowed in thought. "How do you open-"

"You can't," Coren answered, starting to gather back his wits. "You can only open from the outside, remember?"

"Oh." Ivor blinked. "I guess we should've just teleported then."

"That's what I just-!" But Ivor ignored him, grabbing his hand, and sang the words to the spell.

Both of the young Sartan appeared before a large brass statue, carved in their likeness. It covered the entrance to the stairs on a dais, holding out its hand in what seemed like a benevolent gesture. No one was in the vicinity, for the hour was quite late, although the sounds of the machine, hushed back down in the tunnels, was still as loud as ever here. Once the runes faded, Coren recovered fully from his shock and did his best to speak in as firm a tone as he could muster.

"Ivor, tell me. Are you really leaving for the Mid Realms?" For there were no humans on Drevlin, and none back in the High Realms, which left only one place.

The older man shouldered his pack into a more comfortable position. "I know what you're thinking, Coren. But I actually thought about this for many weeks. And well, I decided that now was as good a time as any. Don't worry though! I've done the research, gathered all the necessary items- it should only last a couple days at most."

"And I'm coming with you?"

Ivor smiled. "That's what friends are for!"

Coren had a sneaking suspicion that his friend had planned their little run-in as well. He must've figured that a dreary Coren would be more susceptible to following Ivor's ways. But the storm was still fresh in his mind, and the thought of being outside was suddenly a little frightening.

"Why would Lya agree to this?"

"Well, she hasn't-  _yet!"_  Ivor quickly amended. "She'll come along if you will, no doubt."

"I really don't-"

"Look, I even made a list!" A piece of parchment suddenly appeared in his hand, riddled with Ivor's iconic messy handwriting. "First, we'll go over to the Volkaran Isles- that's where most of the humans are living right now. It's actually quite amazing how fast they've been able to create towns and cities in such a short amount of time. Some of their wizards have even started taming the dragons that live there. Then we can go over to the elves in Aristagon, and their own advancement is even more astounding. Did you know they even started naming an Emperor-"

The images Ivor was painting were all dazzling and conflicting Coren's brain. He closed his eyes to them, letting the headache pass. He interrupted the other before he went on a mensch spiel.

"Ivor, Brother, I can see how much you want to go. And though I would rather you stay, I know nothing I say can stop you. But I cannot join you."

At the statement, Ivor looked crestfallen. The images immediately vanished. "But-!" He waved the parchment again. "The list! I promise we won't do anything too extreme. We'll only ride on  _one_  dragon, how about that?"

Coren shook his head. "Ivor, you know I can't. Besides, I can't just… be so casual among them like you are." He didn't have to look inside the other's satchel to know what he had; an assortment of mensch clothing, something no other Sartan would ever wear. He had done it before back in the High Realms, looking like one of the humans and integrating into their society with so little effort that Coren often wondered if his friend had been born in the wrong race. Although his hair, white with the tips colored brown, usually gave away his heritage. Perhaps this time he'd be wise enough to wear a hat.

Ivor sighed, disappointed. "I was really looking forward to going with you and Lya. I might not even go now!"

"You will," Coren said knowingly.

At that, Ivor blinked. Then he gave a chuckle. "I suppose I'm just that predictable."

"Well, I would've thought you liked it here among the dwarves as well." He could still remember the day Ivor had stumbled into him, going on and on in praise of the fine dwarven ale he had just drunk and how it had been the best thing ever.

"I do, honestly. Just that, um…" Ivor smiled, unashamed. "Dwarf girls aren't really my type."

He really did have a lot of troubling vices. But that was Ivor.

"I was hoping that we could at least go meet a couple of friends of mine. I was going to give one of them this." He plucked out a small, dark stone from a hidden pocket, round and smooth. It's surface was inscribed with a single rune, a basic character that held no spell within, done mostly from children just learning the magic. He could've guessed just which child had made this stone. "He seems to be actually quite interested in magic so I thought he would like this.

His casualness with the mensch was really astounding; he made easy friends with dozens of them, gaining many a girl's heart in the process. As long as Coren could remember, he had always been like that. He could also remember the elders complaining of his behavior, of his complete lack of respect for their customs, for the necessary distance the Sartan had to maintain between them and the mensch. They were their protectors, their counselors- not their acquaintances. Any other Sartan would have made Ivor stay, would have refused to even allow him this little request, and would have told the elders right away to deal with this problematic young man.

Coren smiled easily. "Yes, I'll go meet them."

The upper levels of Drevlin were much more vast, with streets paved in metal, and tall, smooth buildings to the side, crafted by the Sartan to house the dwarves. The walls were made of tough coralite, dotted with caverns where some additional homes were made, with wooden planks fashioned into doors and tough glass for windows. Though many were asleep, there were still others walking about, still working the machine in the small hours. Coren did feel a little self-conscious, for they were no other tall, white-robed Sartan walking the street besides Ivor. But many barely gave him a passing glance, giving him the idea that they must have seen a certain Sartan around here plenty of times for it to be normal.

Ivor's friends were young dwarf lads, their faces already beginning to cover in the thick grey and orange beards of their fathers. They were outside a large metal building, rolling in what looked like to be casks of their famous ale. Many clapped Ivor on the back in greeting, (which was mostly the back of the leg because of the height difference) speaking in their loud language that Ivor mimicked well. Coren was polite with them, even helping one of them lift a particular heavy cask with his magic. This earned him a rigorous handshake and a free round of ale the next time he visited. Ivor promised that he would, winking at Coren.

"Here, for you, Dunmar," Ivor said as he handed the stone over to the dwarf.

Dunmar, a bit shorter than the other dwarves, studied the little artifact, looking at the sigil in wonder. "You have all my thanks, Evan," he said, using Ivor's public name. "I will make sure to keep this with me for safety." He then turned to Coren, giving a short bow to the taller Sartan. "And I would like to thank your friend for coming to see us…" He trailed off, waiting.

Coren realized he was asking for a name. He never had a need to use a public name before. Back in the High Realms, the mensch were so dazzled by the Sartan that they had never dared to ask for such a thing. But the dwarves were different, more friendly but straight to the point. So he said the first thing that came to mind. "Alfred. My name is Alfred."

"Ah yes, thank you, good lord, Alfred."

When the dwarves all finally went inside, Ivor shouldered his pack once more, turning to Coren. "I guess this is where we separate."

Coren nodded. "Just… be careful." A demigod among mensch could certainly take care of himself well enough, but there had never been a Sartan that dwelled so far away from their brethren. In a way, Ivor was making history here, one that he knew must remain hidden.

Ivor suddenly jerked his head up. "Oh! I almost forgot. I have something for you too."

"For me?"

Ivor reached for his satchel, pulling out a thick leather-bound book, unpacking a few wrinkled shirts in the process.

Coren looked at the cover, recognizing the traced sigla on it. "That's…"

"You left it in the control room that one time," Ivor explained, then grinned. "It was lying on the floor, and I was going to give it right back to you, but you and Lya were too busy being romantic with each other."

At that, Coren blushed. He really thought he had put that book away at home. It must have been a different volume. But that felt like a lifetime ago.

"I kept meaning to give it back to you, but it honestly kept slipping my mind." He held it out further. "Here. Before I forget again."

Coren took back the book of poems, the verses to them springing back to his head. "Thank you, Ivor."

The older Sartan gave a kind smile. "I'll see you again soon. Perhaps in a week or so."

"Do you know where exactly to go?"

"I was one of the mensch supervisors down there, remember?" With that, Ivor chanted the magic, tracing the runes of teleportation in the air. Blue light highlighted his being, his body beginning to fade. "Next time for sure though," he promised, pointing at his friend, before finally vanishing into the air.

Coren remained there alone in the empty street. He saw figures move across the makeshift windows of the dwarf people's homes, their rooms highlighted by the same electric lanterns used for their own tunnels, housing a small power of the storm's lightning. He thought about teleporting back to his room; it would've been a quick and easy thing to do. But, suddenly, he felt like he would rather walk instead.

He turned back down the street, grasping the book in both hands. For the last three cycles, he had stopped reading altogether, at least for leisure. Even tomes on history, on the world of Arianus, no longer held much interest for him. The closest thing he would read would be essays on certain spells, on their effects, on their origination, and their uses, and that was only for the research on magic which was his primary duty. He remembered how back in the High Realms, he would read a book before bed, the rune-language floating inside his head. Now he didn't even do that. He could even count on only one hand the number of times he had been to the library on Drevlin.

As he walked, he tentatively opened the book, immediately resting on the page of that strange poem, with its strange images and strange language. And with such a strange sadness that he could now feel.

_And would it have been worth it, after all,_

_After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,_

_Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,_

_Would it have been worth while,_

_To have bitten off the matter with a smile._

He must have been reading for a while, because when he finally lifted his head, one of the street lanterns having gone out just above him, he realized he was at a completely different place. There was the skeletons of the great machine hanging over him, their insides empty and salvaged for better use. He saw gears move in the distance, but not as much of them. There were benches arranged before him, standing amidst a road carved in the floor beneath his feet, inlaid with screws and cogs. He even saw small sculptures made of the scrap metal, one of them looking like a small housecat in mid-pounce, and another… well, he wasn't quite sure what it was, but he appreciated the artist's effort nonetheless.

The great machine here, though still prominent, was not as loud as before. It was probably the closest thing the dwarves had to a park, albeit one made of sharp metal. At first he saw no one and was about to leave, until he heard a familiar voice to his left.

He was not an eavesdropper, nor did he fulfill such an inane curiosity, considered a mensch failing. Still, he found himself walking toward the voice, which seemed to be behind one of the statues, a bit of a distance off. It was there he saw another Sartan, dressed in white robes cinched around their waist, kneeling on the ground as she spoke with the dwarf before her.

"Personally, I think I would like a girl-child myself."

The white curl of hair that sneaked out of her covered head was more than enough to let him know who it was. Before he even made a sound, Lya turned her head toward him, her green eyes glinting. The dwarf, a female he realized, dressed in a wide, loose-flowing skirt, followed her gaze.

"S- Sorry to interrupt," he said, realizing just how strange it must have seemed for a Sartan to have randomly appeared from the side. "I was just going home."

Lya's eyes flicked briefly to the book.  _Have you been distracted again?_  he thought he heard inside his head, pleasant and amused. He answered her with a shy shrug.

It looked like she wanted to say more, but instead turned back to the dwarven woman, around the same age as Ivor's friends, who had been standing beside her patiently. "This is Greta," she introduced to Coren. "She was just telling me some good news."

Greta had full red hair, tied in a braid that trailed down her back, though strands escaped the hold. She had an excitement to her eyes that Coren couldn't quite place until she spoke in her language. "I am with child." A hand went to her stomach, her smile very soft. "Anna here was guessing it might be a girl, but this one is a boy, I can tell!

Oh, but where are my manners? What is your name, Manager?" she said, using the title some of the more devoted dwarves said, remembering to give a bow.

It took a while for Coren to let the information sink in. It reminded him of something, but he wasn't entirely sure what. "Oh, well my congratulations to you, Greta. And… the name is Alfred."

"Pleasure to meet you, Alfred." Greta bowed once more. "I think my child will be doubly blessed now, having talked to two great Managers on the same day! Perhaps it was worth it to not sleep just yet."

"I still think you should," Lya told her softly. "For your child's sake."

Greta laughed lightly. "True. I should be going back anyway, or my husband will start tearing out his whiskers if he wakes to find me missing. He'd probably think I fell down a mining shaft." She said her farewells, bowing once again, then rushed off down the gear-encrusted road.

Lya finally stood up. "Alfred? I am sure I've heard that name before."

Coren rubbed the back of his head self-consciously. "It just came to me. I remember you saying you liked it before."

"I do," she admitted, moving toward him.

They walked out of the park then, him telling her about Ivor's latest scheme to visit the Mid-Realms, of trying to get Coren to join him, while she laughed at such ridiculousness. She in turn told him about Greta, whom she had only met once a few months ago.

"I came out here because I thought there might be some more parts here to bring back home." She raised her head to the skeletal arms of the machine, these ones still and quiet, unlike the rest of its body. "I ran into her. She said she was having trouble sleeping."

"I'm sure she'll have a healthy child," Coren said. And then that strange feeling returned, very familiar and a little saddening. He held onto her hand, thinking about the Sartan children that must be sleeping in their beds, not one of them younger than fifteen cycles. He remembered how when he was little, there had been crowds of others his age, enough to fill classrooms with them. He also remembered how one of the council members, a middle-aged woman, had looked like just a month before, her belly slightly widening with her third child. Then the month had passed, and her face had been so gray, her body back the way it was. She still only had two sons, now grown.

Lya tightened her fingers around his hand, sharing the images with him. "I think having a girl would be nice," she said. They walked the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

"As a promising generation, I can see much talent and skill in every face I see." The head councilor, an old man with thinning gray hair, his robes fringed with gold trimming, stood before the younger Sartan, all of them between eighteen and thirty cycles. "What I had proposed before, that this generation would take the sleep, was a suggestion done out of the best for our people. It pleases me to know that all of you have volunteered for this task. Our brethren from the other worlds will have more than enough help to establish the working order of Arianus and teach our children the ways of peace."

The man kept talking, much of it filled with even more praises for them, the rest heaved with disappointment at their world, at the mensch with their growing wars. It was no longer just between races. Even the humans had begun to bicker amongst themselves, separating themselves into clans and fighting over territory and water, the precious commodity now becoming harder and harder for the Sartan to send over to them. Their population had increased, more than anticipated, out of the demigods' hands. But in the end, his speech spoke of hope. Problems would be solved, and hearts would be eased. Once the other Sartan returned, once they heard their messages.

_Once we stop dying_? Coren had thought, careful to keep it hidden, even from those closest to him.

He stood next to Lya, her robe neat and straight, her hair arranged in a more proper fashion than usual. Ivor was also with him, his own robes the cleanest white, free of wrinkles. He had on a solemn face, showing his elders that he could be serious when the situation called for it.

They had a week to prepare for the sleep. Crystal beds had already been set up in a large chamber, though there were still runes to arrange, double-checking spells to make sure everything went according to plan. The work on the automaton was in double-time now, much of that left to older Sartan, as well as a book being written for the mensch for its use. That, the head councilor reassured, was a last minute resort, for there would always be a Sartan around to help maintain the great machine. These precautions were just that, for the smallest of possibilities.

Coren told himself that was just it, possibilities. And even though he knew that possibilities were everything, that a small shift could change everything around them, he trusted his superiors. He would not think about the angry human wizard, speaking harshly of his protectors. He would not think about the storm that had overrode their magic so very harshly. He would not think about the woman with her only two sons, just passed away a fortnight ago.

He would not.

"When you wake, many of us here will be gone. For even though we Sartan live long, the centuries take their toll. Arianus will rely on your strength and your courage. The mensch will rely on your wisdom, and our brethren will rely on your knowledge. I believe that each and every one of you can do this and more. Pool all of your of talent together, and wake to a future bright with promises. Your fathers and mothers, your grandfathers and grandmothers, will do all they can to make this world more bearable for you."

So that's how it was. Arianus was just bearable, a burden to shoulder. Coren was glad to be rid of it for now.

Though he could not hold Lya's hand now because of etiquette, he felt her all the same. He could feel her smile from beneath her hood, reassuring and warm. He could feel Ivor's confidence, his excitement for a new world to waken to, for new mensch to help and meet. As long as he had them, he could do anything. Even fix a broken world.

"To our brothers and sisters, thank you for choosing this path." The head councilor bowed before them in the old style, his hands folded in his voluminous sleeves.

Coren did not read the book of poems again, as he had planned to before, instead leaving it on his bedside table, with the pages marked. There were things to be done, spells to be structured, and dreams to be had. There would be enough time for reading when he woke.


	3. Chapter 3

During his sleep, Coren dreamed. Memories mostly. He would be walking the grassy fields of the High Realms once again, the tall, carefully crafted buildings reaching toward the clear sky. He would be surrounded by the hargast trees, their crystalline surfaces reflecting the bright light of Solarus, hurting his eyes. Then he would be among the wide, curving tunnels back in Drevlin, their ways illuminated by the familiar runes, their melodies ringing in his ears. Even the great machine's constant clanging was no longer such a raucous noise. And in each dream, each memory, he was surrounded by other white-robed individuals, his brothers and sisters. Lya would be next to him, holding his hand, her eyes always filled with amusement. And Ivor, his laugh infectious, his grin so self-assured, would clap a hand on his back.

The dreams were pleasant and beautiful and everything he could ever want. Because in them he was back on a world he knew, only this time the world was fixed, the world was filled with promise.

And then there were the nightmares.

They came briefly, more like flashes than anything else. Dreams were strange things, effortlessly slipping from one thing to the next, with images rushing past his eyes. He saw shadows, pressed against the walls, with no body attached. From one moment, it would be hovering from the ceiling, extending a hand toward a covered head. He would make the mistake of blinking, and the person would be gone, along with the shadow. But he had thought nothing of it, could not, and kept his eyes forward. He would keep seeing it though, barely there, barely recognized. It would hover near another young Sartan, then both would vanish as if they had never been. It took him a long, long time to realize that the crowd of his brethren was dwindling away, until there were only a handful left. But Lya and Ivor were still there, still smiling, and selfishly, that was all that mattered to him.

The last thing he dreamed was how Lya's hand suddenly felt so cold. The chill spread through his arm, made his heart sluggish. He could no longer hear Ivor's voice, the silence running thick inside his head. His feet kept moving toward a raging storm outside, out of the walls, out of the great machine's moving body. Something pulled at his robes from behind, but he paid it no mind. When the rain hit his face, he realized then that he was the only one left.

When he woke up, the dream -the nightmare- was already forgotten.

So he was hopeful as he climbed out of his sleeping chamber, the magic coming back to him, pleasantly swirling through his blood like spiced wine. There was excitement in him, to meet the Sartan from the other worlds; from Pryan, Abarrach, Chelestra. There was a deep longing in him to hold Lya again, to hear Ivor's voice, to see all the other faces of his peers, young and bright and full of promise. He was even excited to see the mensch, to see the peace that must surely be under way, the vision that he and all his people had shared.

Coren, upon realization, should have thought it strange that only he had stepped out of his chamber at that moment. They were all still sleeping, still dreaming, but his body begged for movement. And his eyes begged for Lya's face. So he went to her, he admired, and then he saw.

"Lya?" he had called out, barely a whisper. She was so very still, her robes should have fluttered at her breathing. He recalled the memory of a chill from his now hazy dreams. But that could not be. That could never be.

The large chamber, the mausoleum, was so very quiet.

_They are dead._

The thought came to him unwanted, clogging his chest. He ignored it, pushing it down as he stared at Lya's form, willing for her to breathe, to open her green eyes, to smile at him.  _She did not even see the automaton finished. She had wanted to see it when we woke up. She had wanted-_

Had.

He stumbled backward after what seemed like hours, falling to his knees. He saw his reflection in the crystal, wanting to deny it. But the reality of what was around him was getting harder to reject- he was old now. Much older than he had been before the sleep. His skin was looser, his head bare, his full white hair now reduced to fringes on the side of his head. He looked down at his hands, still slender but now covered with wrinkles, blue veins sticking out from the skin.

_I grow old… I grow old…_

Sartan lived long. That meant that so much time must have passed- centuries! He felt weight pressing down on his shoulders, not wanting it to be true. It can't be true.  _It can't be true!_

He rushed to the crystal beds, first to Ivor, who had been placed only a few rows away from his own. The man was just as still, hands folded over his stomach, the knot that tied up his hair resting over one shoulder. Coren pounded against the walls of his chamber - _no, his coffin-_  begging for his friend to wake up, to laugh, to not leave him here all alone.

There had been no answer, just like there had been none when he ran to the others, calling out each by name- Reia, Aylor, Myla, and several other Corens as well- hopeful for one to lift a hand, to open their eyes.  _To please wake up!_

But no matter how loudly he called for them, or how desperately, with past images of each face when they had been alive painted from his words, they did not stir. They did nothing.

"I am… alone," he said out loud, cringing at the sound of his voice, at how hoarse it was. He realized then that he was crying.

There must have been others beyond this chamber. Because he being alone was impossible, unthinkable. Even though that if there was, they would've waken them all up by now, which meant they would have all been alive, that Lya would be smiling, that Ivor would be laughing.

"No no no no…" he moaned out, clutching his head. There had to be others.  _There had to be._  The descendants of his people of Arianus, surely. There must be Sartan traversing the tunnels, working on the machine, talking with the mensch. And the Sartan of the other worlds would surely have come by now. It was all planned out, all ordained from the council, from his elders. Who must now be dead. Like his friends, like his love, like everything that he had ever known.

"I can't be the only one left. I can't…I can't be alive and them dead! Why is it only me-!"

Coren stopped, held his breath. Coren. An absurd thought, a name that had been given to him by his father. It had been so common and silly, a wish dwelt within a name. That great things would come, that it would be self-fulfilling, that it would mean that he was more than other Sartan of Arianus.

There were others here with his name, not breathing. They had the same expectations, the same want of a prophecy. And here he was, chosen to live, chosen to fix, chosen to be alone and lost. Chosen, chosen, chosen. A cliché thing, a horrible thing.

The thought of laughing filled his head, and he was sure he was going insane,  _wished_  he was. Because then it would mean that it was all wrong, that nobody like him could ever be relied on. The man who had never been as confident, been as talented, whose one obsession, reading, had been brushed aside. Not him. No one could expect someone so  _broken-_

But he didn't laugh. Instead, he crumpled to the floor, curled in upon himself, and wept for hours.

* * *

It took him nearly a month for him to even think about leaving his underground home. He would remain sitting on the mausoleum ground carved with the graceful sigla, only remembering to feed himself when his stomach complained, or drink water when his mouth went dry. He would sit and wait for a crystal chamber to open, for legs to clamber over, for a voice to greet him.

It never did.

It was only one thing -curiosity- that made him go. Coren dimly recalled the dwarves up above, on how they would work the great machine, eagerly fulfilling the dozens of tasks the Sartan had given them. He wondered then if they would be there too. Did they still work? Did they leave? Or were they dead as well?

So with trembling legs, (he hadn't moved in so very long) and whispering soft melodies to light the now dusty tunnels, he made his way down the path, found the stairs that led to the statue, where Ivor had led him up so long ago. He hummed the next spell, his voice just barely audible.

The runes formed a circle on the floor of the Factory, just a few feet away from the statue. Coren, perhaps in caution or trepidation, urged the light of his magic to dim, to only leave a slight mark of his passing before he materialized fully. As the runes faded, he also made sure to cloak himself as well, to remain invisible as long as no one looked his way.

There was no one around. At first, he truly believed that he what he thought before was true. The dwarves were dead as well, leaving him the only soul left on Drevlin. But then he heard voices through the wide doorway that led out of the building, along with the deep rumble of the machine.

As he walked forward, he noted some of the destruction. There were walls of the Factory caved in, alcoves collapsed under the rubble of metal and coralite. There were only some of the electric lamps lighting the floor, hanging eerily from metal outcrops of the machine. His humming wavered slightly, but he kept it up, finally reaching the doorway that led out into the street.

It was chaotic. There were so many dwarves running around his sight. Too many! They stomped along the ground, carrying dangerously heavy metal parts over their heads, yelling over the machine's clatter that Coren could have swore had gotten even louder. He dared to look out further, gazing above him. The ceiling looked lower, as if another layer had been built up there, but for what purpose he could not be sure. Were there even more gears now? More levers? More moving parts? He saw some of the electricity zapping along certain walls, saw round gauges with their small arrows, their background etched with numbers, go up and down. And everywhere, the dwarves worked, with the same obsessed frenzy, but now increased tenfold.

He could see some of the structures he remembered the Sartan had made, buildings fashioned from the coralite walls. But there were so few now, some of them half-collapsed, looking like broken teeth sprouting from the ground. There were instead a number of large metal vats, meant for housing the oil of the machine, and other structures that looked haphazardly constructed. Dwarves walked in and out of these buildings instead, pushing open planks of wood, serving as doors. Suddenly, he then saw an elongated part of the machine stretch out, knocking clean through one of the few Sartan buildings left intact. Metal screeched, coralite tumbled to the floor. The dwarves simply steered clear from the carnage and continued on their way.

The machine had been given the task to create new room on the Low Realms, more space for it to expand but… not like this! Everything looked degenerated. It seemed dangerous to even walk outside. Still, he had to urge to find the nearest dwarf and ask what had happened, and what was the machine doing. He heard words being called out over the loud din, words like 'Kicksey-Winsey,' 'lectricity rods,' 'Gegs,' and other such corrupted language. He then noted one dwarf, wearing a long white shirt, its sleeves too long, clomping around in shoes instead of boots like most dwarves. He was talking to another dwarf whose hands were covered in oil.

"You are falling behind in your work."

"My apologies, Head Clark. I'm sure  _you_ know how it is," the dwarf responded in obvious sarcasm.

"Mind your tongue. I must prepare the tribute for the Welves! Mangers have mercy on your soul if you don't finish this by the next scrift change!" The so-called Head Clark gestured to a certain mechanical structure, its surface dotted with moving cogs, doing what Coren thought looked like a whole lot of nothing.

He caught that word though. Mangers? …Managers?

He turned around, back to the Sartan statue crafted from brass. It stood on a raised dais, one hand extended outward, holding what looked like an eye. The face was hidden, showing the barest hint of facial features, of a nose, lips and cheekbones, the rest covered by the metal hood. There were a few lanterns near it on the floor, dressing the figure in shadows, in something otherworldly. He recalled an old tale in a book he had read, of how the mensch, before the coming of the Sartan, would worship their false gods, would beg them for fortune and change, would chant their prayers to the heavens above.

The mensch had believed the Sartan were gods.

_I should have been a pair of ragged claws_

_Scuttling across the floors of silent seas._

Coren nearly tripped over his own feet in his rush toward the statue, tugging the solid robe in a certain spot, one that Lya had revealed to him so long ago. He rushed down the stairs, making sure to put the statue of the Manger back in place.

* * *

Cycles passed. Perhaps three or four, he could not say. He was not aware of his body, of the robes that dressed his frame, of his hands that seemed even larger now, covered with age. In the beginning, he spent much of his time either sleeping, or wandering around the tunnels. He would gaze numbly at the empty homes, at the walls etched with runes, waiting for something to happen, something to change, though he was never sure just what. And every day, when his bones were creaking and his mind was much too silent, he would walk back inside that mausoleum. It would be different this time. He would find his old friends up and about, already working on their assigned tasks. They were just so tired, they had only wanted to sleep a little more. How could he even think that all of them would leave poor, useless Coren by himself? They knew that he needed them. Lya knew, and so did Ivor. His friends would never leave him.

Each time he went, hoping. Each time, he found them still there, still dead. And each time, he would cry himself to sleep on the floor. A routine, a ritual.

Sometimes, certain thoughts would pass through his head. His own crystal chamber was still there, placed next to Lya's. It would be so very easy to crawl inside and dream it all away. What was waiting for him out here besides nightmares? And then one day, he found himself standing before it. A bed, a tomb, fashioned out of the runes. He saw his reflection in its surface, could not recognize the face or who it belonged to.  _Not me. Not me._

He had even laid a hand on the chamber, already resolute on his decision. It would be the best thing for him. All he needed to do was go in and close his eyes. And then it would be over.

By chance, his eyes flicked over to Lya's, at her calm face. Her hood was down, the white hair pillowed out before her in all its messy, tangled glory. Was she watching him, from wherever she was? Did she understand?

She had been excited to see this world again.

With even more tears streaming from his eyes, he stepped back from his crypt, from Lya's, from Ivor's, from everyone else's. He could see her face, he could hear her voice. Faded and distant, too far to follow.

He left.

\---

It was a strange, cruel thing that it took a terrible event such as this to get him reading again.

During his youth (he couldn't believe he had to attribute such a phrase to himself) he had only visited the Sartan library of Drevlin a handful of times. The books were still in their place, the tables still arranged neatly and out of the way of traffic. But there was a fine coating of dust everywhere, making him sneeze violently nearly every few minutes or so. He had stood there in the midst of it all, counting off all the books in their shelves. And then it came; a hunger, a need, an obsession. He could barely stand it.

So Coren devoured each book, pulling them from their shelves, dropping more in his haste, trying to make sense of the writings, filing them away in his head. He was looking for answers, for solutions within the pages, scribed by a careful hand. The runes swam before his eyes, a music played within his head. It was soothing, a balm to the wound inside his heart. Questions were lodged inside him, and though the books didn't answer them all, he felt some of his burdens lessen, his shoulders straightening with each turn of the page.

He learned all he could about the Sundering, for he could admit that what he knew before was very little. An ancient world that had been broken apart into its four basic elements, Arianus for Air, Pryan for Fire, Abarrach for Stone, and Chelestra for Water. It had been a decision made by the legendary Council of Seven, from the great Samah who had made such a decree when their eternal enemies were rallying for war. There were other worlds too; of the Labyrinth, a simple rehabilitation facility for the Patryns to help with their dark ways, of the Nexus where the redeemed Patryns would be living in (there must be thousands there by now) and the Vortex where they would have been sent to first eons ago.

He learned more about the mensch races of this ancient past, of humans who had ruled, of the elves and dwarves, once considered fey and mythical, coming out of the forests and mountains to dwell among civilization. He learned, re-learned, the origin of his people- of humans thriving after a terrible war, of learning the most powerful of magics, and of Patryns who had came about the same way, who had been as one with his own.

And he read about dragons.

They had been a popular legend of the old world, ranging from a multitude of different cultures, with a variety of forms, dwelling in the skies and the seas, in the mountains and the deserts, with gigantic wings, or snake-like bodies, with one head, or two, or three, with breaths of fire, or ice, or lightning, or anything else. And they had not been part of the Sartan's grand plan.

There were two dragons of Arianus; the winged lumbering dragons, and the intelligent quicksilvers. An anomaly, a frustrating blip within the Sartan's vision. Still, they did not cause so much trouble, and the demigods had not thought much about them.

There must still be some dragons around, he had thought. He remembered the humans had begun to train them through the help of their wizards. He even remembered how the elves, disdaining the beasts, were crafting ships with prows that looked suspiciously like dragon's heads, and with sails like their wings. He even remembered seeing one dragon, the kind with wings, fly through the maelstrom, fighting to break through the clouds. That had been a rare sight, one he saw before the sleep, before everything changed.

And then, by coincidence, he had come upon a book detailing the art of necromancy. He did not know why he was reading it, for it was forbidden to the Sartan to ever use it. For every untimely death brought back to life, another person untimely dies in exchange, a balance that must be maintained. A most dangerous type of magic, one that his people had learned centuries ago that should never-

Another person…who untimely dies in exchange…

At that instant, Coren shut the book. No, that could not be. If it was true, he would have come upon an undead Sartan by now, surely. He shoved the subject out of his mind, focusing on something else.

He needed to leave. Part of him didn't want to, was content to just stay within the library, within the tunnels, and just live out the rest of his days. But he was helping no one by staying here. He had to see what had happened to his world. Yes, the sight with the dwarves may have scared him tremendously, but that was only one aspect. He had to see. He had to  _know._

And maybe… maybe he would find a trace of his people. Maybe he would find that he wasn't so alone. So, with a cluster of books in his hands, he rushed out of the library, making plans.

Ivor had convinced him (only once) about going with him for a trip to the Mid Realms. He had only done so when Lya said she would come along, and though he couldn't really remember what had transpired during the time, he did remember locations. Mostly. He remembered the continent called Uylandia, the large towns that had been built, the beginnings of a castle keep formed from the tough coralite; a short, squat version of the Sartan's more elegant architecture. It had only been a short two days, and by some miracle, no one from Drevlin had caught them at their troubling escape. Coren had vowed then to Ivor that he woud never repeat the trip again.

Sifting through the mounds of mensch clothes that Ivor had in his room, he couldn't help but think how hilarious his friend would have found the sight.

There was a vast assortment of shirts, doublets, cloaks and trousers, ranging from being tailored from the finest silk to the coarsest cotton, splashed in unassuming colors of grey, brown and black to gaudy ones of red, orange, even purple. Ivor was always prepared to wear whatever the situation would require of him. Coren never thought he would ever feel so grateful to him for keeping up with such scandalous activities.

Ivor had been shorter than Coren, so most of the clothes were small for his frame. But with a whispered word and a gesture of his hand, he made the necessary requirements, even trying his hand at tailoring to make even better adjustments. (He was surprisingly good at it). Eventually, he had enough clothes to last him for a week or more. For now, he had chosen a loose woolen shirt, colored a faded white, with dark brown trousers that he had to lengthen considerably. He also had a rough dark cloak, with an iron pin fashioned in the shape of dragon's wings -Ivor liked collecting a lot of these pins for some odd reason- to help clasp onto him. Finally, he picked out tough leather boots with laces that was good for traveling.

When he was done arranging them, he looked on the clothes set out before him.

He had never felt so terrified in his life.

Trying to gather whatever little courage he had, he packed them all in one of Ivor's satchels. He also shoved in a couple of books, more subjects on the mensch, for information. He wasn't even sure just yet where he would go. The Mid-Realms were still so frightening, so he thought about something else. His old home, back on the High Realms, back on Shegra. Surely, if there were any of his people left, they would be there.

He didn't put on the mensch clothes yet. By now, he was half-convinced that Sartan were walking around those isles above the Firmament. He wondered why he hadn't considered such a possibility before. Carrying the large satchel, he made his way to his home, to his wide room with its white walls, its prim and straight architecture. He saw the book of poems lying on the bedside, reflexively taking it in his hands. This would not be useful, he knew, just more unnecessary baggage. The thought didn't make him put it down.

Coren couldn't help but visit his friends again. He tried his best by not venturing in too far inside the mausoleum. He was afraid that his resolve would crumble upon seeing his empty chamber, that the ugly thought of suicide would resurface. But he just needed to see them one more time, to look at Lya and Ivor's faces. He didn't cry this time. All his tears had been used up now.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to them, clutching at his robes. "I'm sorry I took you all for granted."

It took him a moment to sing the song of teleportation, to appear outside of Drevlin, outside of the machine now called the Kicksey-Winsey. The rain came down just as hard as it did centuries ago, the maelstrom continually brewing before him, the lightning crackling against the sky. It was then he realized that if he ran into other mensch, he would need a name. He could not give them his own, the runes that made up his very being, that could control him. For what if they pleaded with him for riches and fame? What if the mensch were still just as violent, and they made him help in their war? The image of the brass statue returned, a holy thing that he did not feel like at all.

His white robes whipped around his skinny frame from the wind, the rain soaked his bare head. "Alfred," he said, remembering the last book he had stuffed in the bag. "That is my name now." Just a temporary thing, until he found his people once more. That was all it was.

* * *

Coren, with the pseudonym of Alfred, transported himself to the High Realms. He made sure to do so at a secluded place (for precautions, he told himself, nothing more), a small grove within the forest. He didn't notice how the trees seemed less abundant than before, focused instead on changing into his mensch clothes, so as to get used to them. (Again, precautions).

The shirt, though loose, felt restricting, and the cloak about his shoulders seemed a little heavy. Although he had to admit the trousers he wore weren't so bad, making him feel a bit more secure in walking and such. He looked at himself through the shiny surface of the hargast trees, perplexed at just who this person was. This was not Coren. Just Alfred, just some human mensch wandering the forest.

He walked out, knowing the way to the spiraling cities, to the home he had been born in. As he traveled, he thought about cementing his disguise a bit more. He was rather tall, and though he was aged, his walk was a bit sure-footed. He noticed some roots along the ground, some grassy dips and the outcroppings of rocks. He practiced some trips, just minor stumbles, over them, though made sure not to fall completely on his face. To restrict his height, he hunched in his shoulders, wrapping the cloak around himself. At the very least, he would look like some feeble old man trying to make his way. There was no way that anyone would ever mistake him for a demigod.

It didn't take him long to find the large city of Shegra. He braced himself for ruins, like the remains of his people’s architecture on Drevlin. Instead he stopped, wide-eyed. 

It was whole! The buildings didn't crumble, weren't destroyed. No matter that the fields around him were brown and withered. There were Sartan here! He wasn't alone! He practically ran over in his joy, hoping to meet one of his brethren, entirely forgetting about changing into his already-missed white robes.

He saw one person come out of a building, climbing down lightly on the steps. They were wearing robes as well, whispering spells. But the robes weren't white, the magic didn't sing a melody, and there were no images for Coren to see in the air.

He realized then that this was a human he was looking at.

Halting in his run, Coren immediately whispered his own magic, hiding himself from the other's eyes. He watched as the mage walked over to an old wooden tree, its posture bent like an old man too near his time, trying to sprout apples from its crooked branches. There were the buds of the fruit just appearing, a bright and succulent red which promptly withered away, turning to black. The human cursed in words that made Coren blush, and tried again, changing a few words here and there, enunciating them firmly, only to come up with the same result.

The lonely Sartan looked around. There were more humans around, walking down the roads, through the dead gardens. His city, his home, filled with them. He looked at the buildings closely, saw the faded rune marks on it. There were more copies of the characters etched on the coralite, but they were only mimics. They held none of the magic, no matter how perfect they had been written.

He was not sure just why the human mensch were here, and just why most of them seemed like wizards. Did they know of the Sartan? Were they trying to learn the rune language? But they were supposed to be in the Mid-Realms. He couldn't understand. But more were gathering, more were trying to weave their power in the air, trying to bring the grass back to life, to fill up the empty ponds. Very few succeeded, and many more failed.

Coren left right after. There was only one place he knew that was deserted for sure. He whispered for the magic to take him, and soon found himself on the shore of the lake he and Lya used to frequent so much. It was still as empty, as dry as before. The grass around it was non-existent, leaving only the stony coralite.

Part of him hoped she would be waiting there for him, that she would look up and smile, that she would chastise him for ever believing that she was gone.

He didn't know why he insisted on being so stupid.

"Maybe… maybe in the Mid-Realms," he said to himself, kneeling on the ground, suddenly exhausted. "Maybe there are others like me, also confused. If I can just find one…"

 _Just one,_  he prayed to nothing in particular, for there were no gods.  _Just one, please._


	4. Chapter 4

Five months, Alfred traveled across the isles of the humans and the elves.

Five long, long months.

He buried away the name of Coren, careful to not even think on it. The thought of discovery was too much. The only way he could convince the other mensch he was one of them was if he could convince himself.

Though he kept the books and their rune-inscribed pages, he threw away the robes. Burned it actually, for he could not leave a trace. He practiced at his stumbles, at his clumsiness, trying to be as unassuming as possible, until it became ingrained in his movements. Soon, there was barely a graceful touch left in him. People still turned their heads at him though, for he was still rather tall, no matter how much he hunched in on himself, and he went overboard with his continually tripping feet. But he was more of an oddity on the roads, in the towns, than anything else. They pitied him, he could tell, looking at the shabby clothes he would wear, at his feet that seemed to lead him straight into every rock. But they did not think anything more of him.

Because he was simply that, nothing more.

One day, before his lengthy excursions through the isles, he was thinking up ways to not use his magic. He could not travel along the roads with runes spreading from his hands. So he had gone to a shop built up with dark wooden boards, tripping over the step on his way in, a trip he did not recall doing on purpose.

The proprietor had been a heavy-set human with skin tanned from the forge, his moustache black as tar, with eyes that squinted out from beneath heavy eyebrows. He looked Alfred up and down, and was clearly not pleased with what he saw. "What do you want?"

Alfred stuttered, another disguise tactic that had got out of hand, trying to get the words out of his mouth. "I- I'm here to buy…b- buy a weapon."

"A weapon," the man repeated evenly. "Care to specify what kind?"

Alfred, biting his lip, looked behind the man. There were stacks of blades placed on the walls, some with intricate designs on their surfaces, their hilts inlaid with gold, or jewels, and some starkly plain. There were incredibly large ones, that made him think it would be impossible, or at least very difficult, to carry without both hands. There were also small ones, barely the length of his forearm, with a thin tip but sharply pointed.

"T- that one," he gestured toward one plain-looking sword. It seemed big enough to carry, but not too heavy. Even he would be able to use it, he was sure.

The man turned around, stared, then back to Alfred again. "You even know how to use one?"

Alfred, unable to lie outright, deflected the question. "I- I have money." He dug inside his pockets, holding out a hefty amount of the small wooden coins called barls in his hand, the mensch form of currency.

The man's face was unreadable. He plucked out a coin from the pile, held it up before his eyes to ascertain its worth. He nodded. "It's thirty for this one. Just dump it on the table."

Alfred did so, his nervousness letting a few extra ones escape his fingers. The man took the sword in one hand, and fetched a scabbard in another. He held the weapon hilt first to Alfred. All he had to do was take it.

Instead, Alfred dropped the sword from his hand the moment he had grasped it, the blade clattering to the floor.

"I- I'm sorry!" he said, and bent down to retrieve it.

The man grabbed his arm, and none-too-nicely shoved him away. "No. You're liable to cut your fingers off, like you almost did with me!" He picked up the sword, placing it back on the wall.

Alfred swallowed, his voice outlined with desperation. "But, sir, I need that-"

The man slammed a dagger on the table before them. It's blade had a bright silver finish, its pommel outfitted with a small handle.

Alfred stared, not understanding.

"I will not have you shaming my work with your 'swordsmanship.'" The man gritted his teeth. "But even one with weak hands such as you can handle this." He laid the black sheathe of the dagger right next to it. "Same price, for I'll be taking some remedies for you scuffing up my table."

"Of- of course," Alfred said, tentatively grasping the dagger in his shaking fingers. "And… thank you."

The man had waved him off, not bothering to utter a farewell.

Alfred had kept the dagger hidden underneath his traveling cloak. His hand would unconsciously brush near the spot as he walked the winding roads, as he traveled the towns where hard faces stared at him unkindly. He didn't want to use it really, but what could he do besides weaving his magic? The people here still remembered the Sartan, who were now much more like mystical beings than anything else, a children's tale uttered at bedtime. The magic of the Sartan was also known, even if no one really knew the technicalities and theories behind it. If he hummed a melody, if he moved his feet a bit too gracefully, they would all be upon him. They would worship him, and they would force him to do anything they pleased.

The dagger was necessary, he told himself.

When he had been set upon by bandits on the road, like he had always feared, he clutched at his weapon. There had been three men in total, two of them holding longswords, and another a nasty-looking club. Their faces were gaunt, as if they had not eaten in so many days.

"Your belongings on the ground," one grunted out, a scar across his nose. "Now!"

The Sartan were supposed to be their protectors, their advisors. They were not supposed to take up weapons with them. But he was alone, afraid, and unable to utter the words to his spells. Even if he tried to escape, the tales would spread of a middle-aged, balding man who had sung the ancient words of the gods. They would seek him out, until there was no where, besides Drevlin, left to hide.

But… but could he really hurt someone? Could he… kill?

He had tried to draw his dagger, but it clattered to the ground. His hands, he realized, were slick with sweat.

"P- please…" he begged the bandits. They came closer, surrounding him. One pressed a boot to his fallen dagger, then kicked it away. There was only one thing left to him; to cast his magic, to run away, to root them to the spot, to turn their bodies to ashes.

 _No!_  His mind had screamed. Darkness engulfed him, his mind shut down, his breath wheezing out of him.

When he woke up, he was lying on the hard ground, his elbows scraped, his head ringing. He found his satchel to his side. His money was gone, some of his finer clothes (the ones he didn't wear) had been stolen. Even the dagger was nowhere to be found. The books had been left behind however, perhaps the bandits thinking that a bunch of bound papers with funny writing on it could not be worth much to anybody.

Alfred realized what he had done. He had fainted. The men had taken his things and left him alone. And he was alive. And he hadn't used magic!

He should've realized this possibility. Most bandits were a desperate people, many of them looking for easy prey. They didn't want to fight unless they needed to, and for Alfred, they didn't need to. After thinking on it more, he was horrified at himself to even consider the possibility at hurting another person to save his own skin. So he swore an oath to himself to never use weapons, to never stoop to such a level again.

Though while he did try to avoid such characters on the roads, it had happened a few more times. And his fainting proved beyond helpful, even though this meant he kept losing his money. In every town or city he would come across, he had to take on several odd jobs, from cleaning the shops to even handling some manual labor (the latter didn't work out too well) in order to earn some barls. The best ones he had though was helping with the healers. He made sure his hands were careful when handling the herbs and medicines, and he could tie up bandages rather well. Most of the healers he was with attended to illnesses; common colds, fevers, and the like. At first, he didn't come across much wounds, maybe a scratch here or there. During an elven raid, when he had seen a litter brought in with a screaming man on top, his right arm just a bloody stump, he had fainted once more. From then on, he made sure to only assist healers for minor aches and pains, and stayed clear away from surgeons.

Of course, the ongoing clan wars between the humans didn't make that very easy.

But it had been five months since his ascent from Drevlin, several cycles since he had woken up. He had searched all through the High Realms, steering clear from the human mages called mysteriarchs. He ventured into the elven lands of Aristagon, gazing at the terrifying palace of the Emperor, and even the strange Cathedral of the Albedo, where he had learned about the elves housing their souls. He even went back down into Drevlin, watching in sadness as the dwarves, now called Gegs, worked the machine they called the Kicksey-Winsey, working and working while having no clear idea as to what they were working for.

Five months, and he had found no trace of any other Sartan. So he went through each day, focusing on survival, biting back the magic that had once made up his entire being. He surrounded himself with hastily constructed towns, with bustling, seedy marketplaces, with people dressed in rags, muttering to themselves. He slowly began to forget all about Coren.

He was just about to leave the town of Watershed, a loaf of bread in his hands that he was devouring rather quickly, when he saw a man, dressed in traveling leather with a bow slung across his back, rush just past him. He had on a particular seal etched across his chest, one that he recognized belonging to one of the dominant human clans of Uylandia. Seeing that the man was headed to one of the healer shops, he followed, his mensch failing getting the best of him.

"The matriarch is gravely ill," he heard the man say, a messenger, he realized. "Our chieftain requires your services, Marta. If you can save her, you will be doubly rewarded."

The chief healer was a woman in her fifties, her hair gathered in a neat bun atop her head. She gazed at the messenger as if he were a dog who had suddenly learned how to talk. "That illness she has is called age, my dear. My medicines will only delay the inevitable, and not for very long."

"This is not a request," the messenger said, his tone clipped. "My dragon waits not far from town. Gather all the supplies and helpers you need. I will be expecting you shortly." He turned out the door, apparently used to being listened to.

Marta twisted her lips, her wrinkles deepening. "And if I don't heal her soon, my head may well leave the shoulders." She sighed. "Ah, but not likely. Who else would give his children their favorite sweetmelts after a nasty fall?"

Alfred watched as she along with others packed away glass jars of ointments and potions, strapping on pouches of their herbs, even carrying some sharp surgical instruments for emergencies. The woman, seeing him just inside the doorway, shooed him out. "I'm sorry, but unless you're foot is about to fall off, I have no time for other treatments."

"I…" He gulped, wondering why he was doing this. "I would like to join you."

The healer stared. Then recognition lit her face. "Ah, it's you, Alfred. Forgive these old eyes. You have fulfilled your week though, or are the barls not enough payment?"

"N-no, it's quite enough. I just…" What was wrong with him? He had seen enough human pain and death. But then, wherever he went, there was always more to come. That's what happened when war was rampant.

"Please, I know that your primary helpers are off to the other islands as of now, and that you need to leave some here for the townspeople. I thought that perhaps you could use a pair of extra hands." No matter how large and ungainly those hands were.

Marta gave a smile. "It is always pleasing to see others actually try to help in these dark times, instead of trying to make a profit." She nodded to him. "Please help me carry my things then."

* * *

The dragon ride toward the middle of the Uylandia cluster was terrifying for poor Alfred. He had ridden on the beasts before, but each flight had left his stomach nauseous, lighted his imagination of falling through the sky. When they finally landed on solid ground, he nearly wept in relief.

The stone keep was large, with guards posted outside its gate. Banners bearing the white and green colors of the Winsher clan decorated its front, a soft touch to the otherwise garish barbarity of the building, with its sharp crenellations and its pointed portcullis. Alfred, clutching some of Marta's bags, did all he could to keep his eyes on her back, and not at the guards with their thick swords that looked suspiciously dried in red recently.

When they were finally led inside, into the matriarch's chamber, Alfred was a little surprised at what he saw.

The matriarch was a small thing, really. She barely met Marta's height, who was two heads shorter than Alfred. She laid flat on her large bed, the thick covers engulfing her skinny body. Hair dressed around her pillow, hair that must have been once a full, dark brown, but was now peppered with white and gray.

He took one look at Marta and knew what she thought. This woman was already dying.

Still, they did their best; he, Marta, and one other helper. They sat her head up on the pillows, warmed her chill body with rare hot cider, practically a delicacy in the water-starved world, while trying to get her to swallow the herbs meant to dull the pain, to push back the arms of death. But Alfred could see that it was essentially doing nothing. All they could do was ease her in her final hours.

It had been three days until Marta finally announced her retirement. "Blessed Sartan, I do not know how much longer I can appease the chieftain. I must tell him that this is all that's left for her." She got up from her seat beside the woman's bed, her sandaled feet walking toward the door. The other helper followed suit. Alfred remained where he was, hunched on a wooden stool beside the sleeping woman.

"Alfred?" Marta called back. "Are you coming?"

"I'll… remain here. In case she wants anything," he said timidly.

"That soft heart of yours will be the death of you," she said, shaking her head. Although, he thought she didn't sound as displeased as she must have meant to.

The room was quiet, filled with the matriarch's ragged breathing. Her forehead was covered in sweat. Alfred would occasionally wipe it with a damp handkerchief, careful to not wake her. He had been searching through the bags for some of the medicines, when a clammy hand, surprisingly strong, clasped his wrist.

He dropped the little pockets of crushed leaves to the floor. "I-"

"Sing me a song, Matthew." The woman was staring past his shoulder blankly, the irises a soft brown. Her lips were raised in a tired smile. "Like you use to."

"M- my lady. I am afraid you are mistaken. My name is Alfred-"

"You do not need to be so formal with your own mother, Matthew." She laughed, which was more like a croak.  _She doesn't even see me,_ Alfred thought.  _She is stuck in her memories._  "I just want a song before I go to sleep. Whatever song you like. Maybe the 'Sky Queen's Fair.' I always liked that one."

Alfred, who unfortunately did not know the tune or lyrics to the Sky Queen's Fair, nodded anyway. He could try to tell her again, he knew he looked much too aged to be her own son, but what could he say to a person near death?

"Any song?" he asked.

"Any song," she confirmed, clasping his hand more gently.

He hadn't sung anything in so long. Melodies, which used to be as familiar to him as breathing, had been suppressed inside him, buried over with dirt and stone. To sing meant to give life to the runes, and to do that meant discovery.

Still…he could probably sing a short song, as long as it didn't rely on his language. But he didn't know human music very well. What else could he sing besides-

Then he recalled the book he carried in his bag. The other books he had brought from Drevlin months ago were back in the library, done so after his first robbery, afraid if they went to the wrong hands. But, he found he could not part from this one, unable to push away that strange poem with its verses and rhythm.

No, it wasn't a song, but he could work with it.

In a thin, quavering voice, he started to sing.

_Let us go then, you and I,_

_When the evening is spread out against the sky._

He had to take liberties with some of the words, trying to fit them to the melody playing in his head, but he thought it worked well. Gauging by the matriarch's face, she seemed to like it even, even trying to hum along with it. She could not understand the words, for it was sung in an old version of the human language, but he supposed it didn't really matter.

_Do I dare_

_Disturb the universe?_

_In a minute there is time_

_For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse._

The song lasted a good, long while. The sky was already growing dark, shadows creeping in through the large windows. The large candle seated on the dresser was the only source of light within the room.

_I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each._

_I do not think they will sing to me._

Eventually, he got to the last verse, his voice growing stronger, familiar with the long-forgotten exercise. He felt… different, as if he had come across an old friend. But the sadness didn't fade, for he knew it was a friend he would have to part from soon.

_We have lingered in the chambers of the sea_

_By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown_

_Till human voices wake us, and we drown._

As the last note trembled in the air, he felt the fingers around his hand tighten. He looked up.

"That was lovely, Matthew. My dear son. You are always so good to me."

He was not sure just exactly why he was reminded, but in her eyes he saw the sadness of his own mother. He saw her as she was when he was just a young boy, naïve and ignorant of the world. He remembered rushing out of the door of their house, unable to take the sorrow and pain of his father, her husband, dead before his time. He saw her on the floor, the chair overturned.

Tears sprang to his eyes, the memories of his old home still so fresh, marking his heart. He lowered his head to hide them, but the matriarch was already asleep, her face in a peaceful repose.

"Mother was right. That was a lovely song."

At the voice, he sprang to his feet, letting go of the woman's hand. He turned around to find a young woman standing in front of the door. She was dressed in loose skirts, dyed in the colors of the clan. Her hair, brown like the matriarch's, was let loose around her shoulders. Her stance was casual, leaning against the wall.

"I don't recognize most of the words though. I know it's not elven for a certainty. What song is that?"

Alfred struggled for words. He had not even heard her come in, and the door was made of heavy oak with creaking hinges. Shuffling his feet in and out, a habit he had acquired, he tried to speak.

"I…It is just some old song I learned back home. T- that's all, r- really."

"Is that so? Where is home?"

 _I don't even know anymore._ "Just a small place near this cluster. Drana," he said, remembering one of the towns he had recently passed through.

The woman nodded. "Either way, I would never expect you to have such a skill." She paused, as if gathering her thoughts. "Marta has told me the situation. I was coming here to help ease my mother's pain." She looked to the woman who was now breathing evenly in sleep. "But it seems you have already done that for me. I thank you."

"It… it was my pleasure, truly," Alfred replied. "If- if you would like to spend some time with her, I can leave, miss, um…"

"Anne of Winsher." The woman inclined her head. "Firstborn of Chieftain Dracus and Matriarch Evelyn. Mind if I ask for yours?"

"Oh! It's Alfred, my lady." He bobbed his head in an awkward bow.

Anne frowned slightly. "Would it be rude of me to ask for your full name, Alfred?"

His mind stilled for that moment. A last name? People he had come across, even those he had worked for, were satisfied with just Alfred, so he had never thought one up. He was about to come up with a plausible excuse for her (if there were indeed any) when he looked down at his hands. Aged, creased with wrinkles, his arms covered with shabby sleeves. A demigod cowering before those who would be considered his inferiors. Was he part of them now? Or was he still separate? He still didn't know.

"Montbank," he finally answered after much contemplation. If he was anything, he was this. A fraud, a con-man, a swindler. "It's Alfred Montbank."

Anne nodded again, pleased. "Well then, please accept my gratitude, Alfred Montbank."

"Yes, of course. I'll… I'll just take my leave." He gathered the medicinal bags, and headed for the way out.

"I do have one request of you," Anne called out to him before he could even open the door. "You know that these wars among our own have taken its toll over the years, considering your work with Marta. My father plans to help rectify that in the near future with a marriage."

"A marriage?" he asked, perplexed as to why she was telling him this.

"Yes. He has engaged me to Stephen of Pitrin," she answered, naming one of the floating rocks of the Volkaran Isles. "Many do not agree to the arrangement -I certainly don't- but it is for the good of our people, so that we may one day fight against the damned elves. It is only to that end that I am doing this- for now."

There was something odd about her words and her tone. They didn't seem to match. Especially when she came upon the name of Stephen, for he thought he heard her voice soften just a tad.

"I will be queen soon of all the united humans. I will also be with child to help with that unification." She looked straight at him, her eyes a clear gray. "And I would like you to come join me at court."

He was shocked that he hadn't fainted just then, for his head was dizzy, his vision a little blurry.

"I… I'm sorry, my lady. Please excuse my foolishness, but why would you want me to…?"

Anne pressed her lips together tightly. "You have a gentleness that others seem to lack. You are skilled with healing, and can even sing lullabies. In all honesty, I think you would make a fitting chamberlain for my child."

"Ch- chamberlain? I don't-"

Anne held up her hand. "Please think about it, Mr. Montbank. I know that this position requires some ordering of people on your part, but they are simple tasks. I can also promise you my protection if you would join me. Stephen and his followers will not be able to touch you, you have my word on that."

He honestly had no idea what to say. So he nodded wordlessly, clutching the bags to his chest. "I will think about it."

"Please be sure to tell me by tomorrow. Marta has requested that she and her helpers stay the night before the trip back to Watershed." She turned away, facing her sleeping mother. Her voice grew softer. "Your chambers are down the hall, to the right."

"Thank you," he replied, then quietly slipped out of the doors, forgetting to mask his grace.

Matriarch Evelyn passed away that very night.

* * *

It was easier taking the job than he had anticipated. But if he hadn't, all that he saw in his future was constant wandering, forever beset by robbers, with no place to lay down his head and call home. At least with this job, he had a room of his own. He even had some semblance of security. It was the best he could hope for, really.

He stayed with Anne of Winsher in her keep, three months before the wedding. It had been a grim affair, the bride and groom's families eyeing each other with barely concealed hatred, fingering their swords. Alfred's nerves were high-strung throughout the entire ordeal, certain that one carelessly flung insult would get all the wedding guests into a bloody riot. But everything had proceeded fairly well. Both Stephen and Anne said their wedding vows, and accepted their own coronation as King and Queen of both Volkaran and Uylandia, a force uniting all the humans, which meant the elves of Tribus would have a much harder time with their constant raiding.

Though both man and woman said the words grudgingly, he thought he felt it was all for show. No one else seemed to notice the gentle touch of Stephen as he clasped his new wife's hand, or the soft gaze that Anne would give to her husband after all was said and done. If they were truly in love, why would they hide it? Would the humans really have resented such a thing? Looking back at the clans, now united, he was afraid to realize that it was a real possibility.

Immediately after the… festivities, both the new King and Queen, along with all their retinue, moved to a large castle on the large continent of Uylandia. Alfred had been given new clothes to wear, a velvet coat with a frock and neckerchief, tight breeches tied with black ribbons, some loose fitting stockings, and black leather shoes topped with golden buckles. It was certainly a much better change of clothing than what he used to have (at least before the robbers), though the fineness made him self-conscious. He did like the tailor pattern of his coat though, so he adopted it himself, making the clothes over again, although the result made him more shabby looking. Anne had questioned him about it, but he never gave a straight answer. So she had shrugged it off, her mind on much more political matters.

He stayed at that castle for nearly a cycle, learning the ways of the royal courts fairly easily. He had always had good and proper manners, and so was the model individual for a civilized person, despite the clumsiness, the stutters, and the frayed coat.

As time passed, he was more and more convinced of King Stephen and Queen Anne's relationship, even confirming it one night as he had been making his way to his room, suddenly very exhausted after speaking with a particular irate servant. He had heard voices not too far away, just past where the hallway turned. With curiosity nipping at his skull, he had peeked, and found the Queen in the embrace of her husband, both of them speaking in gentle whispers. He immediately left, certain that it would be his head if they had known of his presence.

Alfred had once taken upon himself on writing about the humans, speaking of wars, of the poison it spread throughout the races. He had even wrote about Stephen and Anne, on how they had to carry the pretense of hating each other to satisfy the opposing lords of their clans. If only they could understand, if only their language wasn't so limited. He had left the book he had penned in the castle's library, well away from wandering eyes. He did not know why he bothered.

Still, to see the love shared between the two was enough to set his hopes up, even by just a little. The child, he was convinced, would cement that love even more. Soon, he could hardly wait for it to be born, for his real duties to begin.

After a cycle, Queen Anne was finally pregnant. Though there was the old worry of something going wrong with the pregnancy, as Alfred had once seen so many centuries ago, everything passed normally. She gave birth to a healthy baby boy. So exhausted was she, that she could not even give it a name. But, Stephen had assured her, that could wait until morning. They had time.

And then the baby had been switched.

The child in the cradle was not the same one that Queen Anne had bore. There were thick blonde curls on his head instead of black, his eyes a bright blue instead of green. The castle had been searched up and down by everyone, guards, servants, chefs, and Alfred himself. His first day as chamberlain for the new prince, and he had already messed it up! Never mind that the child had been in the wet nurse's quarters. But the actual prince had vanished, and all they had was this beautiful stranger. Stephen was outraged, and was on the verge of casting the child out of the nearest window. Alfred had stopped him with a rare bout of courage, urging him not to take out his well-understood anger on some helpless child. No doubt that it was a victim as well. It surprisingly worked, and so left the child where it was, but still determined to send it away and  _soon._

"This baby will be the bane of my existence if he stays," King Stephen had said, a phrase that would later prove much too ironic.

So when the great mysteriarch, Sinistrad, had appeared within the castle, everything made sense. Alfred remembered the man in his black skullcap, lifting the baby in his arms, uttering blessings in a slimy voice. The amulet was in his hand, a feather of a hawk tied together with string, and was put over the child's neck. Alfred felt the magic then, incredibly strong for a human, but still sloughing off him all the same. The same could not be said for the King and Queen, for the servants, for the guards, for the court wizard, Trian, for everyone else in that castle. He saw their eyes water, saw a sudden love reach out to that strange child. And none of it was genuine at all.

Sinistrad had vanished then, leaving them their new child- his own son. He was given the name Bane, a last-ditch effort from the grieving, happy, entranced parents. A shot at the mysteriarch that had done this to them, but still so very worthless.

Ten cycles had passed with the new prince with Alfred as his personal chamberlain. And he had tried to do good with the boy, advising him, for the boy was one he knew was really just an unknowing victim in the middle of this mess. He nurtured him as best as he could, caring for him as if… as if he had been his own almost. (Just almost). But the amulet was not just a powerful charming spell, it was also a corrupted thing, for he saw the boy clasp it in sleep, whispering to it as if he was talking to someone.

Still, Alfred tried. Yet he saw his lessons, his words, hit uselessly against the wall that Bane had made. So he despaired, and he wasted away in the court, his hope for peace on Arianus dying.

He could no longer even remember the name of Coren.

* * *

It was one particular morning that everything changed.

He had been sleeping in his bed, his dreams restless, a familiar book fallen to the floor. When he woke, his body felt numb, his head was silent, but that was normal. He had grown used to it, like a man who had grown used to the dark.

When he finished dressing and went into Bane's room, it took him a moment or two to find the prince's soft featherbed empty. He blinked once, twice, three times before thinking,  _Bane must be down in the kitchens, or perhaps he is outside, taunting the guards._  But somehow, he knew that wasn't it at all, even though this was not the first time the young prince had sneaked away early in the morning.

Today was Bane's tenth name-day.

Rushing down the hallway with surprising stability, he grabbed the first servant he could find. "Sarah!" he called out to her, despite the fact that she was only a foot away. "Where is the prince? Where is Bane?"

The woman, looking a bit miffed that he had yelled right in her ear, answered readily. "The prince went off with His Majesty. I saw them take a dragon to the east."

"He went off with the King?"

"Yes sir, and the Queen. Oh, and I believe I saw the good magicka, Trian, go along as well."

 _Stephen, Anne, and Trian?_  He had a sickening feeling he knew what was happening, especially if the royal court wizard had come along. They were certainly not just taking Bane out on a picnic!

"Did they mention where they were headed? I am the prince's chamberlain, I- I should be with him…"

"No, they never mentioned it. They just walked right out of the gates, saddled a dragon and went on their way. I did ask one of the guards, but all he was mumbling about was some 'king's business' or some such."

It really might have been just coincidence. Just because it was Bane's name-day didn't mean anything, and just because he knew that Train had been studying his own magic to try and dispel away the power of the charm didn't mean that today he had… But the King and Queen always traveled separately to keep up their image of a distrustful couple for their clans. For them to be riding a dragon together with their son who was not even their own- Alfred knew this meant something. And maybe it was curiosity again, because it couldn't have been anything else that made him leave Sarah in a hurry, that made him pack his bags full of clothes, both his and the prince's, even remembering to bring in a small pack of sweetmelts for His Highness. And it was certainly because of such a mensch failing -because that was all he was now, and anything before that was just a long-forgotten dream- that made the clumsy chamberlain go out into the courtyard and confront the guards.

"I need a dragon!" he was telling them, clutching his bags to his chest. He hadn't even changed out of his own clothes in his rush, still wearing the shabby court livery. "His Highness has surely made a mistake of leaving me behind. I need to be with the young prince at all times!"

"We are under orders to not let anymore dragons out of the stables, by His Highness' own command." The guard had dwelled in the castle since the beginning of its royal formation. He glowered at Alfred, slightly perturbed as to why this mild-mannered man was suddenly being insistent. "You would do well to remain here. The prince should be coming back within a week or so."

 _No, he isn't,_  Alfred thought. He still didn't know what exact plans Sinistrad had for Bane, but neither Stephen nor Anne were going to wait around to find out. They had lost a child, and were given a changeling in return. They would do anything to be rid of him. He was not sure what he would do- protect the child? Or simply let what happens… happen?

But he had made his choice. He had to do  _something._  "Please, sir, I'm sorry to ask you again but… I must get to the prince."

"Alfred, I do not want to have to force you back inside," the guard said quietly. There were several other men with him, about five in all, dressed in silver-plated armor, bearing sharp pikes in their hands.

Alfred noted them all, as well as noted one of the dragons in its large stall, colored a grayish- blue, stretching out its wings. Saddles were already strapped onto its back, its chest crisscrossed with harnesses and the King's bright red crest emblazoned in the center. Its head swayed toward the group, its slit pupils staring straight through him and him alone.

He had already made his choice.

With tight lips, he dropped his bags to the ground.

"Alfred Montbank, what do you think you are doing?" There was the rattling of armor, the vision of pikes being lowered. But Alfred paid them no attention. Instead he focused on his hands, on his feet, on his voice that went up and down, going to a soft, pleasant tune. Like that of a lullaby.

Hexagonal runes appeared in the air before him, circling around the wide-eyed guards. The clumsy chamberlain, who could barely go ten feet without a stumble, did a graceful dance that belied his very image. His melody was perfect, mesmerizing, made the guards stare. Their hands on their pikes loosened until the weapons fell from their slack fingers. Their eyelids fluttered, trying to fight the magic. But this was the ancient magic of the gods, this was beyond their understanding.

One by one, each of the guards collapsed to the ground, snoring loudly.

When the spell was over, his body suddenly felt heavy. He looked down at his hands, as if shocked by what they had done.

He turned back, stared at the windows of the great palace. Had anyone saw? Would they even believe what they saw? His carefully constructed disguise, his efforts at hiding his heritage, all of it gone. He could not go back, he was sure. The magic was in him, refusing to be denied.

Alfred honestly felt a little relieved.

Resolutely, he walked up to the dragon who had watched the whole event with only the most minor of interests. As he came closer, it tilted its head, bared its sharp teeth. He could hear the gurgling of fire within its belly, warning him to stay away.

The dragons were an anomaly. He wondered just why they were here, why did they come alive in this world? Were there dragons as well in the other worlds? Did the Sartan there control them, talk with them? The beasts here were more simple in their intelligence, -or maybe just different- that not even the Sartan could fully understand their thoughts.

"Do you… do you ever wish for freedom from them?" Alfred asked, suddenly feeling like a child against the creature.

The dragon said nothing. It dug its claws in the ground and rumbled in its throat.

"Maybe I can give you that… if you want. But I need your help first." This was not Alfred talking, this was not him daring to lay a hand on the beast's face, his weak flesh pressing against tough scales that winked from Solarus' light. Alfred didn't know courage. He didn't know anything. "Please."

The dragon stilled at his touch though. Its growls lessened, its wings tucked against its back.

Alfred dared to sing once more.

When he and the dragon flew through the sky, the castle disappearing from his sight, he realized just then that he had left his precious book of poems in his chamber.


End file.
